


Musketeers Assemble

by thebookhunter



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ...and the rating has just gone up, Aramis!Tony, Athos!Thor, Brotherly Angst, Clint and Nat as their historical selves, Crossover, D'Artagnan!Steve, Drama, GOD HELP US, Historical Shenanigans, M/M, Milady!Loki, Porthos!Bruce, Pseudo-historical AU, Sibling Incest, Trickster!Loki, and glaring inaccuracy throughout i'm sure, as you must have guessed, between The Three Musketeers (novel) and the Avengers, chases on horseback, courtly intrigues, listen i tried okay, more or less, ta-daaaaah, tagging for much pseudo-historical bluffing, this is actually serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookhunter/pseuds/thebookhunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor gullible Steve, freshly arrived in Paris from the provinces, has been ensnared by the Trickster, Cardinal Richelieu's Spy or Spies, and now the Queen's good name and the fates of France and England verge on the ability of his Musketeer friends, gloomy Thor, merry Tony, and steady Bruce, to help him retrieve what the Trickster has stolen. Will they manage to thwart the Cardinal's evil designs once more, or will the crown be forced to declare war on England? Will they be able to best the most elusive spy France has ever known? And why did the Trickster reveal his true identity to Steve? </p><p>Gentlemen, to our mounts! One for all, and all for one!</p><p> </p><p>(giggle giggle giggle, couldn't resist.) (no but this is actually not crack ok?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trap

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for a long long time, but it only took wings when Thorctopus the Godsend and likely the best friggin' beta A03 has ever known (fight me!) had a look at it, asked the right questions, suggested the best suggestions, and basically turned what was a half-assed one-shot with lace sleeves and horses into a much juicier, plottier, and much better fic I could not get my hands off. 
> 
> So, since the last scene of the new chapter of the Dog still resists me, and the new Unfaithful refuses to leave first draft form, I just went ahead with this.
> 
> Apologies for historical inconsistencies and liberties taken. I'm playing with Dumas' novel, not the historical period. Let's have fun (I hope!)
> 
> (omg apologies for the title, but once it came to me I couldn't shake it off LOLOLOLOLOL)

 

“Upon my honour, I have never heard a more outrageous story! ” Tony smashed a gloved hand on his thigh in a fit of hilarity. “Do they teach you nothing in the provinces, my naive young friend?”

“What good would a lesson of this nature have done him in the provinces?” intervened Bruce, also laughing without restraint, “These things could only ever happen in Paris!”

“I suppose there is no use bothering to check what’s under the skirt in your neck of the woods,” chuckled Tony. “You just go for it, and it’s the luck of the draw — girl, boy, goat, or even a ripe, juicy melon! Dear Bruce, remind me again why I don’t live in the provinces!”

“Are you comparing the girls of the provinces with a goat?” cut in Thor, who had just entered the room and had but heard the last of the conversation.

“God forbid!” exclaimed Tony, who knew well his friend’s shortness of temper and quickness in taking offence, and didn’t wish to start a squabble (Thor came from the golden and most assuredly provincial fields of Asgard, in the south).

“Then what is the joke?”

“Oh, please, friend Steve, will you allow me?”

“I will not!” protested Steve, two spots of pink blossoming in his usually pale semblance. “I don’t have any wish to see more game made at my expense. And for all your mockery, you, friend Tony, would have done exactly the same as I, were you in my boots at the time.”

“I have absolutely no doubt!” said Tony, in good humour. “And had I been the lucky fellow, I would not begrudge my friends a spot of frolic, especially Thor, our Saturnine comrade here, with his usually black-humoured disposition, who is always in much need of cheering up. Why must you?”

Steve showed his resignation with a sigh. It was hard to resist Tony’s thrust when he was in such a gleeful mood.

“Well, then. Do you remember, friend Thor, when some time ago our young Steve came to us flying on the wings of love? Remember the mysterious demoiselle he had met, none other than the one they call Milady? Remember how that fabled beauty for months made it her favourite sport to drive our poor friend out of his wits, by appearing in his life, letting him pay his court to her, and disappearing again without a trace, leaving our poor suitor here more enamoured and more desperate than ever?”

“Aye.”

“And do you recall how only two days ago, our young friend came to us with the news that Maître de la Furie had finally decided to trust him with an important mission, and he departed for the road to Bretagne like a bat out of hell, because the fates of the crown were in his poor, untried hands?”

“Aye. Get to the meat of it, friend Tony.”

“Indeed, indeed, I applaud your choice of words. Well, it seems that, soon after he left us, our dear friend received another spot of long-awaited news! To wit, that his lady had urgent need of him as well! Was our friend’s suit finally coming to fruition? And what is the fate of France, if Milady calls? Luck would have it that Milady had summoned our friend precisely to a hôtel by the road to Bretagne. And so, what irreparable harm could it do, if on his way to meet the Kingdom’s destiny, our friend stopped to find out what was this urgent business of his beloved that could not wait? So to Milady our good friend goes, with the parcel Maître de la Furie entrusted to his care in his satchel.”

Steve turned his face away, the fluster that heated up his cheeks anticipating the moment he feared the most in Tony’s narration.

“That night, Steve meets his beloved, and to his immense elation, and no small surprise, he discovers that she has finally managed to overcome her scruples, and is willing to give in to our friend’s advances. I hope he left the name of the king’s musketeers in a good place.” Tony ignored the way Steve turned his eyes to the heavens at those words. “But here comes the twist! Once the deed is done, presumably in the darkest of darknesses and without removing one single petticoat, because otherwise I cannot explain this prodigy, Milady has a confession to make that will drain the blood from your face: that she is not a Milady, but a milord!”

“But truly, Steve, you must have known…” said Bruce, who still could not fathom the mystery.

“I-I did not. The fiction was perfect.”

“By Saint-George, what do they teach you in the provinces, my clueless friend?”

Even if his companions’ high-spirited mockery mortified him, Steve still found it in his mood to laugh himself.

“So why didn’t you skewer him with your _other_ sword, the very moment the little minx revealed the humiliating truth?” asked Tony.

“What savagery is that? Why would I do such a thing?”

“Why, he had made a fool out of you!”

“Most men in Paris keep making a fool out of me, am I to kill them all?” sighed Steve, with dejection; his self-regard had suffered from this affair, but had left his tender heart just as tender as always.

“So, dear Thor, Steve did not only neglect to teach that weasel a lesson, but do you want to hear what he _did_ do? …By Jove, behold that blush! Yes, indeed, he spent the rest of the night in his arms!” Tony laughed full-heartedly again. “Don’t you know, dear boy, that there is a name in the city for those who knowingly bed young men?”

“I would not care to have you call our friend that name, not even in jest, and certainly not as an insult,” stepped in Thor, severely. 

“Oh, do not trouble yourself so,” said Tony. “I have no quarrels with anyone over whom they bed, don’t you know? Live, laugh, and be merry, is what I say, for tomorrow we’ll all be food for vermin.”

“That’s not the end of the story,” said Bruce, “because when Steve at last rose from bed the next morning, from a most unnatural sleep that came after he drank from a cup Milady had given him, he found the chamber deserted, and the parcel entrusted to him by Maître de la Furie was gone too. All he found was a handkerchief embroidered with the fleur de lys, and the imprint of Milady's lips in crimson rouge.”

“Yes,” said Tony, presenting the delicate bundle of cloth, “and here it is, in case you doubted our friend’s fantastic story, as I did at first.”

Thor took the slight piece of fabric in his hand, and assessed the exquisite material with the tip of his fingers. He did not join in the laughter.

“Oh, come, come, my sour friend, even you must admit that this is funny!”

Thor fixed Tony with a piercing gaze, which was not amused in the least.

“It is not, not at all! This has all the markings of one of the jobs of the Trickster!”

That silenced the men. They exchanged a look of alarm.

“What was in that parcel, Steve?” interrogated Thor.

“I do not know. All I know is that I was to take it to an inn in Calais, and hand it to a Musketeer who would show me a signet ring that would match this seal,” Steve produced an unmarked, torn envelope which had contained a letter perhaps, its wax seal broken. “He in turn would hand to me another parcel which I was to return safely to de la Furie before the ball in the palace the Sunday after next.”

“Show me the seal again,” said Thor. He examined the envelope where a wax seal was still visible. His semblance became even more agitated. He showed it to Bruce and Tony, who shared in his distress.

“What is it? I beg you, messieurs…” pleaded Steve.

“This is Lord Buckingham’s seal,” said Bruce. 

“Buckingham?!” gasped Steve.

“Not his public signet, of course. This is the one he uses for his private matters.”

“This is about the Queen,” said Tony.

“Indeed,” agreed Thor, his countenance most grave. 

“Pray, tell me what you are talking about, dear friends. I’ve only been in Paris a short time - I’m still not up to date with all the intrigues of the city.”

“Buckingham claims to be in love with our sweet Queen Anne,“ explained Tony, “and has not-so-secretly, and oh-so-not-discretely been courting her with letters, gifts, and even, so say the rumours, secret meetings whenever the chance did arise. Buckingham is the favourite of King James, you see, and the wealthiest man in England, and he’s used to getting his way at all times. The Queen claims to be completely innocent in this matter, but whether out of kindness or foolishness, she keeps finding herself in terrible muddles. For the sake of the fragile peace between our two great nations, both our king and the king of England have been turning a blind eye to this whole affair, hoping Buckingham will see reason and abandon his suit. Not so our remarkable Cardinal. Richelieu has no interest in the continuation of our peace with England, since he stands to profit much more from a war that would drain the already depleted coffers of the crown, and tilt the balance of power in France further in his favour. Should this scandal come to light, with proof that King Louis was incapable of disavowing or denying...”

“Enters the Trickster, the Cardinal’s Spy of Spies,” continued Thor. “The man of the thousand faces, whom nobody seems able to catch; nobody describes him the same way; some even claim he doesn’t exist, but is an entire network of agents. He charms and beguiles those the Cardinal has need of in order to advance his cause, and thus obtains their trust, and frank access to their most private sanctums. What he learns in the intimate confidence of the highest in the land keeps the Cardinal’s formidable intelligence machine well oiled, and replenishes his stores of scandals and secrets he stocks to blackmail those he cannot win to his side with cleaner means. Richelieu already used to have eyes and ears in every house of France, those of pages, valets, carriage drivers, secretaries, stable hands, chambermaids. But with the Trickster’s snake charming, seducing, and skilled interrogating, now he knows what the nobility of France would only reveal between the sheets -- to their lovers, to their wives… and to the Trickster himself, because it seems there are very few, if any, whom the Trickster cannot seduce - and now we know how, if he can turn himself so convincingly into this infamous Milady. And there is nothing the King can do against him. Maître de la Furie is a capable Spy Master, and has excellent agents in his service, but none, not even the Russian widow dama Romanova, has found yet the way to outwit him.” Thor drained his goblet in one gulp, and poured himself another. “Whatever was in that parcel, you can bet your life it carries within the danger of severe humiliation for our queen, and it aids the Cardinal’s cause against the will of our good Louis to maintain the peace with England. Indeed, my friends, for those loyal to the crown, this is no laughing matter.”

The silence between the comrades was ominous.

“Well, my young friend,” said Tony, always ready to lift up the gloomiest spirits with his unsinkable humour, “commiserations and congratulations alike are in order, it seems. You have had the great honour of being entrapped by none other than the Cardinal’s Spy of Spies. You’re lucky that all he took was that parcel, de la Furie’s trust, your good name, and your innocence. At least he left you with your life.”

“Why would he have killed me? He had what he wanted,” said Steve with a dark countenance.

“Because he has revealed to you his true face, and who is hiding behind the mask of the notorious Milady,” said Bruce. “It boggles the mind. Why would he do that? The Trickster does nothing without an ulterior intention. What did he stand to gain?”

“One never knows what he will do next,” said Tony. “His unpredictability counts for a great deal of his success in that spying business of his. Perhaps it just amused him to do so. What is the fun of a trick so well executed that only the Trickster himself knows of it? We know from previous instances that, for all his discretion and stealth, the man likes an audience who can appreciate his skill. It’s about his only weakness.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” said Thor. “Our concern is that parcel, the ball at the palace on Sunday, and Buckingham’s man, still waiting for Steve in that inn. Last I heard, the Cardinal had not yet returned from his trip to Rheims. Whatever the Trickster took from you, perhaps it’s not yet in Richelieu’s power. We must find him and retrieve it.”

“But how? Nobody ever knows where the Trickster will surface next,” said Bruce.

“Perhaps not, but Steve knows his face.”

“That is, if he wasn’t in disguise again, or if he’s not in disguise now…”

“It’s all we have,” said Thor. “Describe him as best you can, Steve.”

Steve became absorbed in his own thoughts, as he summoned Milady's features in his mind, and tried to match them with words that did her justice.

“She had-… _He_ had a creamy white complexion, of an ethereal transparency that was most becoming, and clearly that of a high-born lady. Or-or a lad, I suppose," he blushed. "His hair was long, black as night, and set out his startling green eyes most splendidly, like emeralds encrusted in a setting of onyx. He had an elegant mouth, some would say hard of gesture, but it was soft as rose petals. He was of haughty carriage, noble and proud, and there was a regal quality to his hands and his wrists, exquisite and unmarred. His neck was long as a deer’s, his shoulders and arms…”

“Peace! Peace, my love-struck friend! Enough!” laughed Tony, dealing his comrade's shoulder a sonorous slap. “It’s almost as if I’m seeing him before my very own eyes, and I must confess, I’m falling in love myself! And, pardieu, it seems to have affected too our dear friend Thor! Pray tell, is this the look of love in the golden south, my friend? Here in the north, we could have sworn you had just seen a ghost!”

Indeed, as Steve unwinded his description of Milady, colour had steadily abandoned Thor’s face. With the contents of Tony’s goblet, which he snatched away and downed in one gulp, he tried to summon it back.

“We separate and we make enquiries,” said Thor, standing on his feet, abrupt with determination. “Tony, Bruce, fetch Clint and report to dama Romanova. We must ensure we are informed of the Cardinal’s movements with as much detail and promptness as possible, and we must find out if the Trickster has returned to Paris. Enquire at the gates. Meanwhile, Steve and I shall ride north. We must assume that the Trickster summoned you where he did, and not in the city, because it suited him for his plan. If he was aware of Steve’s ultimate destination, that inn in Calais, perhaps that’s where he was going. We may still be able to find him on that road.”

“It might have been a whim, or a distraction…” argued Tony.

“For the queen’s and our friend’s sakes, let us hope it’s not. If you can’t find trace of him in the city, the road to Bretagne is where we’ll be. Gentlemen, to our mounts, there is no time to waste. We stop only when we can ride no more. Good luck!”

Bruce proffered his hand, palm downwards. The rest piled their hands on top.

"One for all," he said.

"And all for one!" cried the rest.

 

 

 

 


	2. The Ghost in the Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes Thor and Steve must stop the night at an inn. Secrets from the past are revealed, and we learn what woes burden our heroes' hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless Thorctopus for not only being the best, but the promptest and smoothest beta.

 

 

Two days passed in chase. On the second night, Thor and Steve stopped at a country inn to recover their breath and their strength. After a long journey from before sun dawn to long past sunset, tonight they could ride no more. On a whim, almost as a joke, they enquired from the _hôtelier_ whether he had seen perchance a tall, black-haired man with green eyes and fair skin. The _hôtelier_ surprised them by responding that, indeed, he had. That a man of such description had stopped at his establishment the previous afternoon, had a cup of wine and some bread and honey, and before he left, he entertained his patrons with strange stories about dukes and duchesses, marquises and kings. And when the little son of the _hôtelier_ hurt his knee stumbling down the stairs, the man distracted him from his tears with a trick of cards. Thor and Steve absorbed such news with astonishment, and even if they could not fathom why would the Trickster be so indiscrete, and so suspected the man the _hôtelier_ spoke of and their man were not the same, they still left word of the new developments for their friends to find, should they stop at this inn on their way in pursuit from Paris.

They soon retired to the room they had been allotted, eager to maintain their own presence unnoticed by the rest of the patrons, and even more eager for some rest. Steve had duly finished the meal Thor had had the _hôtelier_  bring up for them, but he refused the wine.

“It does nothing for my mood except bring me down with slumber.”

“Sleep would do you no harm,” said Thor.

“Or yourself. When was the last time you really tried to rest? You never seem to bat an eyelid, my friend.”

“Indeed. One sleepless soul among us is enough. We have paid for this bed. Have your rest.”

“Dear Thor, I know you mean well, but I… It’s hopeless. I deserve none of your doting or your pity. I’m languishing for a dream of my own creation, and yearning for one who played me for a fool. I deserve your mockery, not your compassion, so go ahead and laugh.”

Thor drained his cup and Steve’s, and poured them both another.

“I would laugh if I should hear something amusing.”

The room was spare in furniture, just the narrow bed they would have to squash into if they indeed decided to try for some rest, the table at which they had had their supper, and the bench they were sitting at, their backs against the cold stone wall, each lost in his own thoughts. 

Among his new friends from the king’s musketeers, Thor had always struck Steve as the most reserved and hardest to know. He could not but feel intimidated in his presence, towering above the rest, with his superior height, Herculean build, and proud mane of gold. He could be cheerful, and Steve had seen him laugh and celebrate with the best of them, but there seemed to be an untold burden weighing heavy on Thor’s shoulders, and whenever his mind turned in on itself, it showed a kind of bitter weariness in his countenance. Steve had not dared ask of the nature of Thor’s woes, but he had kept his ears open. All he had learned was that nobody knew for sure. A woman, Tony hazarded, but women were Tony’s answer for everything. Wife and children lost to a great calamity, guessed Bruce. Gambled and drank the family’s fortune away, ventured Clint. Steve himself leaned towards a mysterious tragedy in Thor’s past, but he himself recognised that his temperament was prone to romanticism. But he could see no villainy in Thor, of whose generous and kind disposition Steve had had ample proof (Thor always had a helping hand and a smile for children, old people, and widows), and appeared in Steve’s eye as nothing short of an errant knight. He was courageous and gallant in combat, and also prone to bouts of a murderous rage, from which he drew an almost supernatural strength, and which the Cardinal’s guard knew to fear. For all his friend's brooding and reserve, Steve loved Thor the best among his new comrades, and wished he could gain his trust. 

Tonight, Thor seemed even more melancholy than usual, and also suffering from a restlessness Steve was soon to learn the meaning of. Steve observed out of the corner of an eye how his friend poured and drained two goblets of wine in quick succession, the way one does when one is trying to summon the sweet looseness of tongue and the lightness of mind the ghost within the wine can provide.

“Can I tell you a story, my friend,” said Thor, now that he had found his courage. “It might perhaps bring you some solace in your anguish. It’s the story of a friend of mine, who grew up in the provinces, like yourself. His best friend in the world was the son of a stable hand, who had been kept as his companion in games since before either of them had memories. They were even schooled together side by side. This very unusual arrangement, for one of such low birth, was explained to them both on the grounds of the lowly-born boy’s excellent head for letters and numbers. He might grow up to become useful in the running of the estate, my friend’s father said. It suited both boys well. They loved each other above all. They were inseparable. They called each other brother.

“As they grew older and became men, their mutual devotion only became stronger and deeper. Its… nature changed. They still loved each other above all. As more than friends. More than brothers. Do you understand?” Thor’s penetrant gaze, even dulled by a haze of liquor, entreated Steve for an answer; or rather, for a show of empathy.

“I understand,” Steve said, and nothing more.

“Of course, such a thing could not even be thought of. In Paris nowadays one sees all sorts, but back there… My friend burned and ached with the agony of his frustrated desires, and feared above all leading his brother to sin. Instead, they pledged their souls to one another, swore to be together for all times, and even sealed their union with an exchange of vows and a chaste kiss, which for all its chastity still felt on my friend's lips as hot as a branding iron, and sealed his conviction that the fire he nursed for his friend would only consume them both, if they should ever allow it to burn. And my friend swore to himself never to taint that promise with his lust, for the sake of their sanity, and the salvation of their souls.

“Then, one day, the man whom the younger boy called father passed away, and to everybody’s great astonishment, there was nothing for the boy in the stable hand’s will, not even a mention of his name to disown him. Word spread out soon that the boy was not the stable hand’s son. The shadows clouding his origins became a heavy yoke around the boy’s neck. There was talk behind his back, and children called to his face the bad names they had heard in their households. Why must man be so gratuitously petty, so cruel, it never ceases to break my heart.

“My friend’s father, master of the estate and patriarch of the household, summoned them both to his presence one day. There they learned that both boys were, indeed, of the same father. The younger boy was the child of the patriarch and a chamber maid, after the physicians advised that Mme Frigga, his first wife, should not risk having more children after my friend was born — and indeed, when Frigga became with child again, she and her son died before the pregnancy came to term, while my friend was still an infant. Of course, the boys were not to tell anyone one word of this. The patriarch would amend the problems caused by the stable hand’s thoughtless’ testament, the boy would secretly receive an endowment, more than he would have ever received from the stable hand in the first place, and thus the matter would be resolved, and never again would it need to arise again. 

“My friend was elated, ecstatic. He felt the call of their shared blood, which bound both brothers together till the end of days. He vowed to share the estate with him upon their father’s passing, as was fair.

“But my friend’s brother… The news did not sit with him well. He had been accustomed since infancy to the differences in treatment between him and my friend, and though he had always been proud, and thus, sensitive to the small humiliations their different births dictated, he had had no alternative but to resign himself to them. But now that he had learned it was all a lie, he resented the injustices done to him all his life, and could not bear to remain in that diminished position in the eyes of society, endowment be damned. He demanded restitution, their father’s name, his real origins be made public. Their father would never agree to such a thing, and so my friend told him, but if you wait for a few years, brother… 

“Anger and resentment were poisoning his mind and his soul. He hated their father, and accused him of making a whore out of his mother. That he had ensnared her with promises of marriage (something which my friend, knowing his father well, was sure had never crossed the old man’s mind), only to break his vows when she became with child, so as to spare himself the shame. And hatred for their father infected his feelings for my friend. He resented him for the favour my friend received from family and society, for the love their father bestowed on my friend and denied his other, illegitimate son.

“He became almost mad with bitterness. He began to seek trouble. He would run away from the manor, and be gone for days on a rampage of mischief, only to be forcibly returned soon after by the constables, or by some angry villager, demanding compensation for a tavern wrecked or a maiden’s honour despoiled. The boy blamed all his wrongdoings upon his father, for a lifetime of lies and humiliations, and instead of carrying out the penance and reparations imposed on him, he swore to keep on down this path of sin and corruption, so that the whole of France would know what putrid stock came from that house. They would then lock him away in his chambers, until he learned his lesson, and to prevent further disruption, but he refused to see sense, or to listen to priest or magistrate, or to my friend; even their old nurse's supplications would fall on deaf ears. And in time, he would always, always find the way to escape. So extreme was the boy's manic passion for villainy, that my friend was sick with worry for his brother’s sanity, for his soul. And the hatred of one who had loved him so was like a stab into his side. He was heartbroken. 

“The patriarch decided that the boy was to be sent away, before scandal utterly disgraced the family, and before his noxious influence infected his beloved eldest son. The Louis-le-Grand, the famous boarding school in Paris, would have him, aware only of the boy’s brains and the reputation of his family, still untainted by that time beyond the borders of their province. Their father thought it was a great service, more than the ungrateful bastard deserved, but the boy thought it a banishment from the place that was his birthright, a cruel expulsion from all he knew and loved, and an insult adding to the injury, since it was the same fate that had befallen his poor mother. It constituted one slight too many, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“He was locked away in an old, windowless tower while preparations were made for his departure. My friend was forbidden from seeing him, but even the most loyal servant looked upon the heir of the manor with a kind eye, since he was well-loved for his good nature and sweet temperament. On the night before his brother was to leave for Paris, my friend succeeded in sneaking into the tower.

“He found his brother sick with hatred and malice. Because he knew it would hurt my friend, the boy owned all the shameful, villainous things they accused him of. He seemed hell bent on procuring his own perdition. But my friend, in spite of it all, would not give up on him. He believed that if his own heart was steadfast, if they had but some time, he could win him back and make him see reason, and find forgiveness and peace. He took the blame for all the slights suffered at their father’s hand, and he begged him that they would part as friends. He again pleaded for patience — we shall be reunited and all wrongs put right, he'd say. He swore his love to him, he pledged his heart, his life, and everything he would come to own. We shall be together as equals, he promised. All you have to do is wait, I swear.

“His brother laughed. ‘You swear? Are you not your father’s son?’, he said, ‘What good are words in our family? Liars, all of us!’ 

“My friend was persuaded then there was no point in trying to reason with him, and with his spirits unmeasurably low, he made to leave. But instead of rejoicing that he had finally achieved what his hurting words seemed to have been trying to attain, the young boy became overly perturbed by despair, and he turned his rage against himself, to the point that my friend decided to step in and restrain him, lest he should cause harm beyond repair. My friend's embrace wrung the fury out of his brother, whose fury suddenly cooled down. But he was not appeased, oh no, he had merely come up with the way to have his vengeance. He would destroy the father through his beloved heir. He stopped fighting, and instead he-... he tempted my friend, like a lover would. And my friend, in spite of the oath of chastity he had sworn to himself…" Thor twisted his hands. Before he proceeded, he emptied another goblet. "You have to understand, for months all he had had from his brother were words of anger and hatred and rejection and contempt. Now he was offered the warmth of the kisses he had longed for since he had become a man, and the sweet embrace he had dreamed of. God have mercy, he could not resist. He knew that it was not out of love his brother was giving himself to him. But how could he turn down the thing he most wanted in this life, when it was offered so enticingly." 

As he reached this point, Thor gaze seemed to blur and drift into space. Steve remained quiet and still for a while, afraid to disturb his thoughts. At length, he prompted him,

“What happened then?"

Thor's eyes regained their focus, an inscrutable smile on his face, barely there at all.

“It seems that the honesty of my friend's passion, which not even the most hurtful, most sharply poisoned words could water down or break, had won over his brother's heart. They swore their love to each other. They renewed the vows they had taken as children, but this time, the seal they put upon it was not chaste. They spent the night as lovers, in each other’s arms. And if it was a sin and a crime in the eyes of god, it was also truly an act of love. And if that was corruption, it tasted sweeter than the sweetest prayer. It may have pleased the devil, and angels may have wept, but my friend wished not for forgiveness, and would never ask for it, for as long as he lived. And so my friend learned that his brother still lived, and could still be found, underneath all that bitterness and hatred. He learned that the love in his own heart was able to win him back, if only they had the chance. And that belief, that his brother might have been saved, and that he had failed him, would torment my friend day and night for the rest of his time on this earth.

“The next morning, when they were found together, their father suffered a stroke. How my friend wished for his old man’s death that morning, but it was not to be. The cruel patriarch would live long enough to witness the destruction of his youngest son, whom he had refused a legitimate name, and all in the memory of the wife whom he had betrayed and dishonoured with another, even while she lived.

“The boy escaped the Louis-le-Grand after only a few weeks, but not before causing all sorts of mischief, scandal, and embarrassment for the school and some of its interns, their families and his own. He vanished into the streets of Paris, never to be heard of again.”

“What happened to your friend?”

“His old father never recovered fully from his stroke, and died not long after. For my friend that meant only one thing, that he was free to leave for Paris to try and find his brother, and make good on all his promises. But he never caught a whisper of him. It was as if he had fallen off the edge of the earth. My friend succumbed to melancholy, loneliness, and despair, half his heart lost forever, the other half dead and putrid in his chest, poisoning his thoughts, killing his every hope; his guilt never allowed him to strive for happiness or seek relief from his burden. He never loved again, and he never married. He drank his estate away, losing all his faithful servants one by one. He locked up the old house, and ended up in Paris, penniless and nameless, in the Royal Musketeers.”

Lost in his thoughts, Thor was not aware of the affectionate, saddened, and knowing expression on Steve’s semblance. 

“And did your _friend_ ever stop looking for his brother,” asked Steve.

Thor acknowledged the meaningful inflection in Steve’s words with a warm, tired smile.

“Never. And he never will, until he finds his brother, or death finds him instead." And clanking his bottle against Steve's pewter cup, encouraging his friend to drink, he concluded, "Now you know why your misfortunes hold no amusement for me. I too know what it is to wither in pursuit of one's heart's burning desire, even when the heart well knows that such desire is not only forbidden, but also impossible."

Thor’s story may have distracted Steve from his own anguish while it lasted, but now that it had ended, the sourness returned. It showed in the set of his jaw, and the hardness in his eyes. Thor witnessed the turn in his expression, and realised his efforts to soothe his comrade's woes with his words had not achieved their aim. He was not ready to give up yet.

“My dear friend, many have fallen for the Trickster’s machinations, people much cleverer than you or I," said Thor. "You mustn't beat yourself up so."

“It’s not just that,” argued Steve. “I can’t extract him from my thoughts. I had never known such thrill and sweetness in my heart as that I have known in his company, and I still long for it back. I know it was all a lie, and yet… Oh, Thor, it’s as if I was bewitched. In spite of all I know about his true nature, and the falsehood of his every word and action in my presence, and in spite of his villainy and how ill he has used me, my heart just won’t give up on this foolish hope, that there was some measure of those sentiments Milady expressed for me that was real, that he thinks of me with warmth, and perhaps even remorse. Or that he thinks of me at all.” Steve forced out a sad, tired chuckle.

Thor showed his commiseration with an arm around his comrade's shoulders, which were slumped with the burden of his own folly and woes.

“What an ass I was, to think a creature of such exquisite beauty and such elegant worldliness would really care for one as plain and unrefined as me. All lies. Even the chance of our first meeting, even that must have been staged, I see it now. I had just acquired my lodgings at Monsieur Cartier, and befriended his fair daughter, Margot, Peggy. Back then, I did not know Peggy was chambermaid to the Queen, and one of her closest confidantes. I swear I had no designs on her like that..."

"You don't have to swear, my friend. I don't doubt you were just as clueless as you looked when I first laid eyes upon you, which must have been about that time."

Steve smiled, with some mortification. He proceeded with his recount.

"I had just arrived in Paris, and I was so lonely and lost. And she was kind and good to me, is all. And yes, in truth, I may have looked upon her fine face and figure, and flatter myself that she might regard me with the same fondness as I did her. I may have even had some thoughts of what a very fine wife she would make for a very lucky man, and thought I myself might be worthy of her hand, and even began to consider requesting it from her father... Before, that is, our friend Tony scattered and chased away those designs of mine, with warnings of the wreckage a hasty dash for marriage did to young Musketeer husbands _and_ their wives, when youth and vigour press, while the distance inherent to the duties of a Musketeer strain wedlock vows and shatter the best of intentions; Tony advises to delay on such enterprise as much as I possibly can. He says it works for him, and perhaps it does, I don't know. In any case, I never courted Peggy in this way, and tried not to let any expectations arise on her part, although my heart still yearned. It was precisely because of my friendship with Peggy, because she vouched for my loyalty and trustworthiness, that Maître de la Furie entrusted me with this mission." As he spoke the words 'loyalty' and 'trustworthiness', Steve reflected on his deeds, and sunk further still in his own self-regard. He spoke with weary bitterness next. "And while I maintained my friendship with Peggy, and secretly wished that she never met another suitor, so she would be waiting for me still when I eventually decided to settle down, I would still run like a dog to Milady's feet whenever she beckoned, and forget all about my sweet Peggy, her face and her kindness swept away with the hopes that this time Milady would let me make her mine. I suppose Tony was right after all, young Musketeers are not to be trusted, and should be kept away from decent, constant women, whose fine love they do not deserve. And what an eager subject I was to Milady's tyranny. How effortlessly she fanned my devotion for her, how wisely she nurtured it, starving me up to barely the point of despair while she tended to her own, undoubtedly much more important business, but always reappearing just before her absence dispelled my longing completely. She had no need to work hard for my heart and my dedication, but she kept my leash short, that I would never stray, but would always be there, if and when the Cardinal finally had use for me. It’s all so obvious now, how did I not see it before? I was blind! Blinded by her attentions, her loveliness, and by my own stupid hopes!”

“Aye, the moment you entered the court's inner circle through Mademoiselle Cartier, that’s when you must have drawn the attention of the Cardinal upon yourself, and that’s when he must have set the Trickster upon you, to add you to his web, just in case one day you might come in handy - a young, green, untried Musketeer, naive and eager to prove himself, _and_ so close to the queen. Quite a finding for Richelieu, so full of promise. Tell me, my friend, how did you first meet Milady?”

“I noticed a squabble in an alleyway, near the Rue des Augustins. A bunch of brutes were surrounding a lady and her maid, and advancing towards the defenceless women with god knows what villainous designs. I remember the pearls of her necklace strewn on the pavement, where it had been snatched off her neck and scattered all around. I of course came to their aid, and succeeded in disbanding the attackers, wounding three, one of them gravely. I thought I might find myself in some trouble for it, but the ruffians, however, never reported it. I know why, now. Once I was assured that she had not been harmed, I escorted the lady to safety, and she gave me as a token of gratitude one of her rings, which at first I refused, but upon her unyielding insistence I eventually took, and which I still keep today. I was struck by her radiance even then, the struggle having put the loveliest colour on her cheeks, and undoing her coiffure. It made her look wild and magnificent, such a becoming, such an attractive touch of earthliness in her otherwise unearthly beauty and elevated, unattainable air, and putting in my mind, I must confess, a most indecent notion, and so inappropriate in one who fancied himself her saviour, and not her hunter, that she looked perhaps not unlike the way she must when rising from bed after the transports of love.

“I accompanied her to what she said was her house, and already with an ache in my heart, and not just my heart, I departed, resigned to never seeing her again. Days later, finding I could not take my mind off her, I tried to look for her, but the house I escorted her to that first night seemed empty and abandoned every time I called. I tried to put her out of my thoughts, and be loyal and constant in my heart to Mademoiselle Peggy, even if no promises between us had been exchanged. In spite of it, the thought of Milady excited my imagination in such a way that… Oh, I was already doomed. I never stood a chance. My feet would always walk me back to that house, and upon finding it empty every time, I began to despair. 

"But then, a few weeks later, and so unexpectedly that at first I thought it was a dream, I received a note from the mysterious lady, and Peggy or no, I could not help but to heed her summons. She awaited for me in the gardens of the Tuilleries, and allowed me to kiss her hand. We walked, and I pressed my suit, and probably embarrassed myself in her eyes with the silliest words of love, the most foolish promises, and the bluntest requests of a lady's favour ever to be heard in this town. And laugh at them she did, and how her dismay with my clumsy endeavours became her. I may have bored her to distraction - I don't know, I was too entangled in the mesh of words I was trying to weave for her -, but she did not dismiss me, and indeed, she did not discourage me, so much as swat my most urgent, pushiest attempts with a graceful, careless wave of the fan of painted silk in her gloved hand, and smile quietly at the calmer ones. Such charming company she made, so delightful, her conversation as plain and unaffected as myself, her inherently lofty, distant carriage softened to a more approachable, more amenable, immensely attractive poise and elegant self-possessment. That first afternoon went by in a sigh. She let me cut a sprig of lilacs for her, and she wore it in her hair. She let me kiss the palm of her hand, soft as rose petals, gentle when she stroked my face. She called me ‘my foolish boy’ or ‘darling silly kid’, but her tone was warm and kind, and to my ears sweeter than wine; and she often mocked me for my plain country ways and the lack of polish of my lowly and provincial breeding, but always without cruelty. It seemed it was a game for her, nothing more, one that cost her little effort, and brought her some nice sport. I of course, was not playing at all. By the time she took her leave that evening, she had me wrapped around her little finger, with binds stronger than the strongest Spanish steel. Oh, she fascinated me. Never had anyone like her ever taken an interest in my person. I am sure that rarely had one like her ever deigned to look kindly upon the likes of me.

Steve let a bitter scoff show his contempt of himself at his own naiveté.

“She disappeared for weeks before she called for me again, and so it went, and months went by in such an agony for me, and such a merry dance for her. I would never know how to find her, or where to look for her, but she would always manage to find me. And all of you, my dear friends, advised caution, noting that this Milady was renowned in Paris for her intrigues and entanglements. Did I listen? Of course not. Well, you all urged caution except for Tony, of course, who encouraged me instead. He would tell me,  _No matter what the poets say, never has a man yet died of love,_   _but rather, love makes man feel livelier. Is liveliness to be avoided or abhorred? A young heart that breaks will always mend, the blood rushing hot and fast in a young body will see to that. Chase your Milady without fear. If you're lucky, you get a touch of paradise. If you're not, nothing is lost that will not be found again._ That's what he says. I would have heeded his council if I was in doubt, since it aligned closely with my own wishes, but in any case, it was of little consequence whoever's council I heeded, since I wanted her so much, and she could play my dull-minded, provincial, poor foolish self so expertly. Whenever she resurfaced, I would go to her and pay her court. Whenever she seemed amenable, or teetering, undecided, I would interrogate her about her scruples — if she loved me as she said, what prevented her from granting me my wishes, since she swore they were her own as well? Did she have a husband perhaps? Had she been betrothed against her will? Had she made a vow to some saint? What indeed could be holding her back, when she swore she loved me, and she knew I loved her? I confess I must have made a nuisance out of myself. But how I longed for a real answer, for a clear enemy to defy. Husband, betrothed, or a secret shame in her past she must atone for. Whatever, whichever, something I could understand and challenge and defeat. _Ask not what concerns you not_ , she would say, _and do not wish for what you know you must not wish for. Don't you know the loveliest flowers are poisonous?_  That should have given me pause for thought, for she seemed sincerely concerned for my sake in those occasions. But then, acting as if I had actually made some progress, and she could not help herself, she would let me hold her arm, and kiss her hand. I would feel bold by her lenience then, and dare to kiss the inside of her wrist. How her eyes would close as she held her breath, like a shooting star, and how my heart rammed in my chest. But never did she grant me her lips. Ah, but she kissed my eyelids once, and even my cheek… Oh, I was dying, my friend. I swear, on any of those afternoons, I would have died for her, for a single touch of her lips on mine."

“And then, the moment de la Furie entrusts you with that parcel, Milady sends for you,” said Thor.

“Yes,” admitted Steve, mortified.

“In an inn by the road to Bretagne, which you were to take anyway.”

“Yes.”

“And once she has you there, all of a sudden her pledges of chastity have ceased to oppress her. And on your first important mission under orders of the king’s Spy Master himself, you decide that France can wait for one night. And even after she has revealed her outrageous secret, still you let yourself fall into her arms, and then into those of god Hypnos, after you let yourself drink from the cup she offers. And you never suspect a thing.”

Steve’s chest swelled and caved under the deep sigh of dejection and shame. His friend patted his shoulder with a slow, kind chuckle.

“Again, be kinder to yourself,” said Thor. “The seduction he wrought around you is his greatest power. He has honed his skills with men far more worldly, wary, and cautious than you, and he has vanquished them. He is an expert at this game. How do you think he has managed to survive all this time in the murky waters of politics and intrigues he inhabits? They call him the Silvertongue for a reason… He is tremendously skilled in lies and manipulations; so much so, he seems to be able of convincing anyone of almost anything. Some say he must have paired with Satan and pledged his soul to hell for the powers of darkness, such is his skill. The king himself believes it to be so. Don't you know the orders? In spite of the heft and caliber of the Trickster's crimes, and the high profile of his connections, which should suggest that the crown would want to have his trial and sentencing witnessed by the court in full, Louis won’t have the Trickster brought into his presence. Instead, if and when he should ever be apprehended, he is to be judged and executed where he is found, and within the hour. Indeed, the king fears him so much, he has even ordered the manner of his execution: he is to be decapitated and burned, his ashes scattered at a crossroads to confuse his spirit, and prevent him from coming back to haunt him, as if he was a witch.”

“He is not to be granted confession and a Christian burial?” gasped Steve, in horror. “Beasts! Hypocrites! He is no witch and no demon, he is but a smart man who knows his trade well. And he is flesh and bone, like you or me. I have known him well enough to vouch for that.”

“Ah, but _would_ you vouch for that, in front of the king, the court, and the whole of France? Would you let them hear how well you have known him?” challenged Thor.

Steve turned his visage away, although it would do little to conceal his fluster. His voice didn't tremble, though.

“It may have pleased the devil and angels must have wept," he said, echoing Thor's own words, "but at the time, for my part at least, it was an act of love, and I shall not be made ashamed of it. Perhaps I should. I know not, I am after all very ignorant of the ways of the world. But if all I have to learn is shame and regret, then I care not to learn at all.”

The affection for his friend warmed Thor's heart, and softened the habitual hardness around his mouth. He said,

“It pains me to see your heart is so tender still as to bleed for the creature who has ensnared you and betrayed you so cruelly. But just the same, that gentleness of yours, so rare, I would hate to see it succumb to the world-weary, rotten ways of Paris. Perhaps it is not in your best interest but my own sentiment that I hope I never see your heart made harder than it is today. You are made of noble sentiment, and I love you for it.”

Steve smiled, the lateness of the hour adding to the exhaustion of his spirit, worn out by the trials of the last months.

“I know the Trickster deceives and schemes and seduces and lies,” Steve said, “I know that this is his trade, and I realise that all his victims must be left with the belief that they were special, but… On those walks around the Tuileries, I would talk and talk and talk, and when I asked her what she was thinking, she once told me, smiling with some sadness, _‘Nothing, for a change. When I am with you I can put down my guard, and rest_.’ She used to tease me about my naiveté, but she would also say it was a relief to her, and quite a delight. That with me she could be herself, because I had no malice and no secret designs, no hidden intentions, that my wishes were open and honest and plain, and that she liked that. And when sometimes she let that mask of hieratic serenity slip, there was a melancholy underneath that wrung my heart. _Let me make you happy, Milady,_ I would beg her, _that's all I want_. ‘ _I wish I could,_ ’ she would say. And I believed her burden sincere then, and I believe it now. But even if I didn't, even if I thought her utterly false, that she never felt even an ounce of fondness for me, that she despised me completely and fooled me entirely, I just cannot help but feel for one so haunted, so hated, so bedevilled. After all, he too is nothing but a toy in the hands of those too high and mighty to ever face the king's law, even if they are the ones that truly profit from the Trickster's intrigues. I do not wish him any ill, in spite of the way he’s used me. I wish him peace.”

“He has gotten well and truly under your skin, has he not?” said Thor.

Steve attempted a smile, and how flatly and listlessly it fell. His young friend's spirits seemed as low and black as his own. How he wished he could distract Steve from such dark thoughts, even if his own were crushing his chest. For his friend's sake, he tried. Forcing lightness in his tone, he said,

“Legend has it that he’s the best fuck in all of England and France,” he hit his friend's side with a playful nudge of his elbow. “How was he?”

“Thor…!” protested Steve, as the wave of pink born from his neck quickly raised and reached all the way up to his ears. He composed himself as best he could, and adopted a dignified demeanour. “I am a gentleman. All I am going to say is, if there are words to describe it, I do not have them.”

Thor laughed, a rowdy, lewd, whole-hearted chuckle that put a light in his eyes which Steve was more than surprised and pleased to witness.

“Well, Tony and Bruce may mock your gullibility to their hearts’ content, and congratulate themselves that they would have never fallen into the Trickster's trap, but for all their worldliness, what they can only dream of, you have had. I would say you win this round. Cheers, my friend!”

Steve clinked his glass to his comrade’s when it was offered, and this time he drank it down. Alas, all the wine in France could not douse the flame in their hearts, but they would make a most gallant attempt at trying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lame title, leave me alone. I DO suck at titles, ok?
> 
> So this story came from one of my favourite moments in fiction ever, the Drunk Confession in the Third Person that Athos (in the shape of Van Heflin) delivers to his friend d'Artagnan (in this case Gene Kelly, in the 1950s movie), when he's trying to warn him about the Countess de Winter d'Artagnan has fallen hard for. The poor man is heartbroken still after all these years. Anyway, I love that scene, and I wanted to write it. And this whole fic started here, as a one-shot confession scene that grew a bit bigger.


	3. A skirmish on the road to Calais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. What is the Cardinal's right hand man doing on that road? How did the Trickster know to ride north? Who is it waiting for the queen's messenger in Calais? And Thor cannot get Steve's description of the Trickster out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Downgrading" from Explicit to Mature, because even though I like my smut nice and juicy, I have found that trying to write porn in Dumas' style would end up making y'all cringe rather than clench, if you know what I mean, and this, I don't tire of repeating it, is NOT crack. If I work out how to do it without turning it into a Harlequin novel, I will, but in the meantime, apologies if you're disappointed, but trust me, it's better this way.
> 
> Ah, warnings for (vague) period-typical homophobia.

 

 

“I don’t like you like this.” 

“Oh?” In Loki’s smile these days there was always a spike of malice. “So how _do_ you like me, _brother_?”

They had argued again, the same slights had been vented, the same tired old reproaches had been aired. Thor’s weariness was unspeakable. He knew it was a dream. He knew it was close to its end. He had suffered it countless times, and it seldom varied. He wished to be past this point, and move on to the next, but he knew that wait he must, for Loki always wanted to have his say, every word of it. There was but one consolation to this mind subjecting him time and again to the same nightmare: that while it lasted, Thor could see his brother’s face, with finer detail and more clarity that he could ever muster when he was awake. And thus, while Loki rained bile and anger over him, Thor endeavoured to memorise his features, the angle of his nose, the arch of his brow, the precise hue of green of his eyes, the exact thickness of his lips, their gesture. He told himself, this time I shall remember my brother’s face when I arise.

Loki’s ghostly lips touched his, and there was nothing, only air. Thor startled awake.

 

“You were dreaming,” said Steve. “I was about to rouse you. You shook and twitched, as if you were in distress. Was it a nightmare?”

“Aye. I may be getting too old for this flavour of adventure,” groaned Thor, as his weary bones protested the stretch of his back. 

“Nonsense,” said Steve, “you ride with all the vigour of a youngster.”

“Oh, it’s not the riding, it’s the bed of rocks under a shelter of stars at the end of the day which causes the real strain,” said Thor. “And this poor fare of bread and olives, and nothing but a goatskin flask of water to refresh our throats from the dust of the road, while the inn down the hill mocks us all night with the lamp lit at its door.”

Steve concurred quietly. 

The previous evening, they had ridden to exhaustion, with those lights twinkling ahead, spurring them on with the promise of a warm seat by the fire, a glass of wine, a hot meal. Their maltreated behinds had all but touched the wicker seats of the chairs by the hearth, and the _hôtelier_  had gone to fetch them their supper, when in through the door came a small party. At its head, a tall man of maybe forty, with black and piercing eyes, a strongly marked nose, and a black and well-shaped moustache, his right cheek dented by a long, ugly scar. Thor and Steve had both startled when they perceived him, since they knew that face, that scar, that violet doublet, and that arrogant stance very well.

“Pardieu! It’s Rochefort!” exclaimed Thor, quickly turning his face away.

“And five of his brutes! What on earth are they doing here!” whispered Steve, as he grabbed for his wide-winged hat. He set it low over his eyes, shading his features.

The Musketeers made their escape discreetly at the first chance. They retrieved their mounts from the stable boy, to whom the beasts had only just been entrusted, and made for the woods which gently sloped up the hill, with only a slight delay to buy a loaf of bread from the kitchens of the inn before they left. They found a clearing that seemed suitable to spend the night. Steve gathered some wood and busied himself trying to light a small fire, Thor saw to the horses, and meanwhile they debated together the astounding surprise of meeting their old adversary in that _hôtel_  on the road to Calais. 

“Such an unfortunate coincidence!” Steve had said.

“When his Eminence the Cardinal is involved, it’s unwise to allow too generously for coincidences,” sentenced Thor.

“Well, Rochefort is Richelieu’s right hand man, isn’t he?" reasoned Steve, as he handed Thor a piece of bread and a handful of olives. "And there cannot be any affair of greater importance for the Cardinal than the war with England. We should have foreseen Rochefort would be put on the chase.”

“And yet, it is very strange,” said Thor, taking a seat close to the flames. He reclined on the saddle of his horse. “I have never heard of the Trickster and Rochefort working together before. Instead, what I have heard is that Rochefort hates the Cardinal’s Spy of Spies with a vengeance. Our black-moustached man had already belonged to Richelieu for decades, serving His Eminence loyally and devotedly, before the Trickster was ever heard of. And then, one day, in comes this younger, unknown man of immense, exquisite skills, able to insinuate himself into any nobleman’s intimate circle using methods which Rochefort can’t possibly emulate, and in no time he rises up to the very top of Richelieu's court, contesting Rochefort's position. Furthermore, the Trickster’s fabled beauty is a personal affront to Rochefort, who does not regard the scar on his own face as a mark of virility and distinction, but a great humiliation, and the one thing thwarting his every advance with the high-born ladies he covets. Needless to say, it’s his haughty air, his dullness, his brutish manners, and his lack of charm, that thwarts his success with the kind of women he would like to seduce, but _that_ Rochefort will never own, for man is never blinder than when he looks in a mirror. In any case, Rochefort hates the Trickster, despises him, and envies him from the bottom of his rotten black soul. Would the Cardinal have them collaborating on this most delicate issue, and risk their enmity endangering the whole enterprise?”

“Precisely because the matter is of crucial importance, it’s not unthinkable that the Cardinal would want his two best men on the job,” said Steve. “If Rochefort is as loyal as you say, His Eminence should not fear that anything, not even this mutual animosity, should interfere in the success of their mission.”

“Perhaps. Then again, what is the part of Rochefort and his brutes in this scheme? A gang of hand-picked goons and the cardinal’s right hand man, all against a lowly messenger? When the Trickster is already on the case?”

“They may be the Trickster’s protection,” said Steve. “They may be chasing _us_.”

“Perhaps. But the careless manner with which they entered the inn… If they had been following us, how come did they not know we were inside? They were not seeking us, they did not notice we were there… Something just doesn’t add up. What is there that we do not know?”

They hit a dead end on that line of thought. Thor bit into the piece of bread he had been holding close to the fire for a moment, until it blackened and toasted. It may be poor fare, but that scent seemed able to liven up the weariest soul.

“The other matter than won’t let me sleep,” said Thor at length, “is the inexplicable actions of the Trickster since this whole business began. He destroyed his cover as Milady when he revealed her true sex to you. Milady was a most valuable asset he had cultivated for years, and then, for no gain I can discern, he has burnt it entirely. And why does this most secretive man, whom for years many did not even agree he existed, first lets you see his face, and then just keeps stopping at every inn, again showing himself without obscuring or disguising? Why does he keep speaking to the patrons, and even deliberately making himself memorable by telling stories and playing card tricks?”

“I can only surmise, it is a trap,” said Steve. 

“But for whom?”

“For us? He must have known we would follow him. He must have known that we would suspect the hand of the Cardinal in this business the moment he revealed himself and stole my parcel.”

“But why leave us a trail of breadcrumbs, why advertise that he is heading for Calais? I can’t make head nor tail of it!”

“For Rochefort, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know. All these intrigues are doing my head in. There is nothing I wish more than to just close my eyes and forget about this whole business, at the very least until the morrow.” He sighed with immense weariness. Then his semblance became animated with a new notion. “Tell me one thing, my friend, did you tell Milady where you were meeting with the messenger? Was it written down on something you carried with you, which the Trickster may have discovered while you slept?”

“No, it was conveyed to me by word of mouth. And I told her nothing about my mission. I didn’t utter a word about being on a mission at all. I thought I was being wise, discreet, and prudent. Why do you ask?”

“I just wonder how did the Trickster know to ride for Calais. You know, my friend, that rumour has it, Buckingham has a secret French mistress he calls whenever he sets foot on the mainland?”

“Even as he courts the queen?”

“Oh, indeed. Brazen man, our Buckingham. And his mistress is a lady of such charms and delights, she has managed to hold on to the most desired man in Europe for years, and yet she remains unknown, courts no public favours, and seeks no fame for her triumph?”

“Perhaps she is wedded? Perhaps she is close to the queen?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps… What other rewards might this mysterious lady obtain for rendering such extraordinary services to the Duke, I wonder? What lady is rumoured to warm the beds of some of the most elevated heads in the continent, and yet remains in the shadows, and never brags about it?”

Realisation dawned on Steve’s countenance like a bolt of lightning.

“Parbleu! Milady!” he gasped.

“That would explain how the Trickster seems to be permanently one step ahead of us in this game.”

“Milady and Buckingham! But is there nobody in this land the Trickster hasn’t…?” 

“We have more pressing concerns than those, my friend.”

“By god!” said Steve, once his quick wits put together the implications. “You mean to say that it might not be a simple messenger, but Buckingham himself, waiting for me in Calais?”

“It is a distinct possibility.”

“Is Buckingham such a fool, getting his own hands dirty in this matter, risking his life and his honour for it?”

“Oh, my naive friend. Georges Villiers is a fool of the highest order. The favourite of two kings, and rich beyond good taste, he believes himself so far above the laws that rule other men, that there is no risk he will not take, especially in pursuit of the queen. He believes that being bold to the point of stupidity must surely endear him to the extremely elevated object of his affections. I saw him once, with my very own eyes, entering the Louvre at night, disguised in a Musketeer’s livery, to meet the queen of France in secret, under her husband’s very own royal nose! After poor Anne had begged him, for her honour and his life, to stay away! I would wager my last bottle of Bourgogne it is Buckingham himself in the flesh waiting for the queen’s messenger up north, and that the moment this whole intrigue began, the first thing Villiers did was summon Milady, to make sure the time he whiled away in Calais would be put to good use. And of course, only Buckingham would have the nerve to waive at Anne of Austria with one hand, and beckon to Milady with the other.”

“But then…” said Steve, “Rochefort and his brutes…”

“Precisely my thoughts!” concurred Thor. “Whether or not they know Buckingham is in France, we cannot let them reach Calais, and find him there! Much more than the queen’s honour may be lost if they do!”

“Two of us against six of them…” meditated Steve, and then a wide, mischievous smile illuminated his semblance. “It shall almost be a fair fight.”

Thor laughed very much. Steve was a man after his own heart, and Thor was grateful for the good fortune that had arranged their paths to cross.

 

They had slept for but a few hours and set off as soon as they woke, before the break of dawn, in order to gain on Rochefort and his men so that they could seek an advantageous spot for an ambush. It could not be a bottleneck or a bridge, the obvious places where the clever Rochefort might be on guard for an attack. They settled for a stretch of road along an elevated ridge, across a barren field, not far from a small, thick copse of pines where they would be able to conceal their horses. The spot was desolate and open enough that nobody would be on the lookout for a trap, but Thor and Steve could duck in the ditch that ran beside the road, amid the bushes, and surprise them.

They laid a length of rope across the road, securing it to a roughly fashioned stake which they stuck deep in the ground, and disguised the rope with dust. When Rochefort and his men galloped by, they would pull the rope taut and hopefully trip the horses. They would fire their muskets too, to add to the confusion. Steve and Thor would attack then, taking advantage of their disconcertment. 

After the trap was set, all that remained was to wait. They ate some more of their stale bread, both deep in their thoughts.

“The ring Milady gave you, may I see it?” asked Thor.

Steve produced it at once from between the folds of his chemise, where the fine gold band, set with a single emerald, was threaded in a length of silver chain. Thor held the ring in the palm of his hand and examined it for a long time. Then, after a disheartened huff, he held it in his closed fist for a moment.

“What?” inquired Steve. “What is it that you look for?”

“Nothing,” said Thor, returning the jewel to his owner. “It was a shot in the dark. Why don’t you close your eyes for a spell? We shall hear them come.”

“And you? Do you not wish to rest?”

“I don’t need as much sleep as you, my young friend.”

“You always speak as if you were an old man, when you’re barely out of your twenties!”

“Ah, but the soul commands the body in these matters, does it not? One is as young as one feels. And I sometimes feel as weary as if I had lived for a century.”

Steve matched Thor’s cheerless smile with a much brighter one of his own. Thor envied his cheerful disposition and bemoaned his bilious own, because while Steve was full of hunger and spirit after having had his heart broken a handful of days ago, Thor’s ancient wounds still burdened him as if they had been inflicted only yesterday.

Nevertheless, today there was more fire in Thor’s belly than there had been for a very, very long time. Steve’s description of the Trickster had lit it. Pale skin, green eyes, raven black hair, and beautiful features that could pertain both to a man and to a woman. Could it be? Was it possible? Did he dare to wish, did he dare to hope? 

He had once given his mother's ring to the one who was most precious to him. He had made up infantile vows of love and fidelity, took the band of gold encrusted with a sapphire  that had a chip on the one corner, and slipped it on a long, white, delicate finger. He then kissed that hand with ardour. The ring Milady had given Steve soon after they had first become acquainted was not that ring, and Thor’s mind could not make itself up whether to be disappointed or rejoice. If Steve’s token of love had been a gold band encrusted with a sapphire chipped on one corner, Thor would have _known_. That the Trickster was _him_ , that his brother lived and had been found, that he was closer than he had ever been to seeing him. Then again, if his brother had given away what amounted to their wedding ring to a man who was but a pawn in an intrigue, what would that mean for the esteem in which his brother held their vows? Oh, Thor's mind had been tearing apart between hope and fear. Let it be that ring. Let it _not_ be that ring. Well, it wasn’t, and for better or for worse, Thor’s agony had not eased.

He had held the jewel in his closed hand because the Trickster had touched it. And the Trickster had green eyes, pale skin, raven black hair, and a beauty both masculine and feminine, like his brother. And he was of great cunning and charm, and could seduce and enchant and lie and deceive with devilish skill, like his brother, and he held himself like a nobleman, and he had refined, elegant hands, just like his brother. Was Thor’s fixation clouding his judgement, his wishes inducing him to see meaning where there was nothing but coincidence?

But what if he was right? What if he was indeed but a matter of hours away from finding his long lost brother, only to discover that he had returned to him as the most reviled, despised, hated, and feared man in England and France? A creature who spied and whored and killed, a traitor to king and this land, operating and living beyond the laws of god and men, without morals, with no regard for heaven or hell! Should Thor not wish his brother remained lost, rather than finding _this_? Damn him - if his brother was the Trickster, Thor would wring his neck with his own bare hands!

_Oh, brother. Would you, really?_

He should pray that it wasn’t him, should he not? Perhaps he should. And yet, Thor found himself impatiently casting his thoughts ahead, already searching the streets of Calais for that insolent smirk and that humorous leer he knew so well, even if the rest of his features had been eroded and distorted by the many years since he had last beheld his brother’s face.

Oh, but was it a hopeless search in any case? If he was who they say he was, if he had done the things they said he had done, was he really still the boy he had known and loved? 

_Dear brother mine, would it be so hard to believe? Have you already forgotten?_

 

 

______oOo______

 

 

“I don’t like you like this.”

“Oh? So how _do_ you like me, _brother_?”

 

Loki had been locked in his tower for days, waiting for arrangements to be made, so that he could be transported securely to Paris. And each and every one of those days, his screams and howls had found Thor in the most remote nook and cranny of the house. Even in the fields, Thor thought he could still hear him. He heard him in his dreams. And he heard too the muffled mutters the servants whispered in the corners between themselves.

“He refuses food, drink, and sleep. He stays on the chair day and night, so that he will jerk awake if he nods off.”

“He only stops screaming to regain his voice.”

“He threw the chamberpot at my head. I believed he was going to kill me!”

“We found him covered in blood. He had torn his skin with his own nails.”

"He has been possessed by the devil!"

“He has taken leave of his senses!”

“I heard him cry all night last night,” the old nurse was telling her _comère_ the cook. “Poor child, so wretched, so lost…”

 

“Let me see him, father,” Thor would beseech. “I must talk to him before he departs.”

“He does not wish to see you. He shall turn you away. He hates everything of mine, including you.”

“Not me,” Thor protested, “he cannot possibly hate me.”

“My son, your loyalty and steadfastness does you honour, but is misplaced in him. He is beyond reason. He doesn’t need your words, but a change of air. A nimble mind like his soon rots away in the country. With so little and so low to compare himself with, his head has swollen to an inordinate degree. He believes himself the centre of the universe, his complaints on par in importance with plague, famine, and war. The bustling of the city will procure him distractions and stimuli, and teach him his true place in the world, how petty his grievances really are, and how fortunate his situation. He’ll learn some gratitude, and his suffering will ease. Then you will be able to reach him again. Until then, trust your old father, and stay away. For your own sake.”

“But father, my heart breaks hearing him endure his torment alone day and night! I must see to him, remind him that he is loved, that he has not been forgotten or forsaken…”

“You shall have your chance, but only once he has left his wicked ways behind. I do not wish his corruption upon you. Too many horrible things have been said about our house because of your brother's terrible misdeeds in the province - I do not wish them to infect you too!”

“But father…”

“Enough! Do not trouble me any further with this matter. You will stay away from your brother, as I tell you. No more!”

 

There was always a sentinel by Loki’s door, well-instructed by his father to keep all visitors away, and more specifically, his stubborn elder son. Day after day, Thor attempted to bypass him, without success. He was growing desperate.

On the very last night before the day Loki was to leave for Paris, Thor went to see their old nurse and kneeled at her feet. Clasping her old hands in his, he implored her.

“Please, Maman, I beg you. I beg you with all my heart. I must see him.”

She did not ask him to state his purpose or his intentions. He may have wanted to help Loki escape, for all she knew. She let him help her up the spiral staircase to the room at the top of the tower, and bid him to hide in the shadows while she dealt with the lackey at the door. She may have reminded the man of some past favour or loyalty — she had nursed so many children in this household —, or perhaps sent him on an errand, using her harmless appearance and her trustworthy reputation to persuade him to leave his post. In any case, the lackey left, leaving the key behind, and Thor could now kiss the nurse’s hands and go see his brother. She entreated him with watery blue eyes, discoloured by old age.

“I swear, Maman, I just want to...” 

She shushed him, and smiled kindly.

“Do what you must.”

 

Loki was sitting on a chair, the only piece of furniture in the room except for a cot in the corner, the blankets upon it undisturbed. He was awake, but there were dark purple marks under his eyes, which were glassy, feverish with prolonged fatigue and the exertions of his mania. His cheeks were sunken, his countenance wan and sickly. Although his clothes were clean, they seemed disheveled, sitting ill on his diminished frame. 

“Hello, brother,” said Loki, with a voice that was hoarse and broken from his endless screaming. He hadn’t risen to greet him, and now Thor saw why. “Yes, indeed, I’m tied down to the chair,” said Loki, enunciating with a sarcastic lilt in his tone. “For my safety, you see. Oh, and they bathed me and dressed me too, like a babe, because apparently the Louis-le-Grand does not welcome pupils foul with their own blood, vomit, piss, and shit. It seems I’m moving up in the world.”

Thor’s respiration had ceased with the great impression he was receiving. Loki endured his gaze with insolence, as if he took pleasure in Thor’s shock.

“Have you looked your fill, now?” said Loki. “So why are you still here? Have you come to mock, to gloat?”

“I have come to speak,” said Thor, after he had gathered his wits. “But not like this. If I untie you, can I trust you not to hurt me, or yourself?”

“Look at my skinny arms, my weakened frame,” said Loki. “If I was to attack you, you would swat me away like a fly.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“ _Can_ you trust me?” repeated Loki. He seemed amused as he deliberated, and he smiled broadly when he offered his conclusion. “Always, _brother_.” Ever since they had found out their common origin, the word ‘brother’ never left Loki’s mouth without a drop of poison.

Thor didn’t like to be made a fool of, but he had to hope that a show of goodwill on his part would elicit another from his brother. He set out to work on the ropes around his brother’s wrists. They had not been in such close proximity for months, and that too caused a stir within Thor’s gut. Once the first knot was undone, the indentation it had left in his brother’s skin compelled Thor to take Loki’s wrist in his hands and massage it gently. He wished to soothe and comfort, but he was also eager for his brother's touch.

“Do not squander all your care on my right, when my left has fared no better, you harebrained oaf,” said Loki, a gentle mockery that was not without some sweetness. It reminded Thor of better days, and so he kneeled by his brother to untie his other hand already with a lighter spirit. But he felt Loki’s piercing gaze on him as he struggled with the devilish knot, his brother’s frozen stillness bearing no resemblance whatsoever to serenity, so Thor remained alert, as if dealing with a crouching snake that could spring and bite at any moment. Once both hands were free, Thor busied himself with Loki’s ankles, while his brother massaged his own mangled wrists. After his legs were also free, Thor gently untied the soft leather shoes to reach Loki’s slender ankles, take them between his hands, and soothe them with his warmth and gentle touch. Loki allowed it. For a long time, neither said a word.

“It took you long enough,” said Loki.

“The knots were tight.”

“I meant, to come and see me, lunkhead.”

“Father…” began Thor.

“Of course,” cut Loki, his voice still light in spite of its hoarseness, as if it was all a big joke. “Well then? Speak now. Why are you here?”

“I had to see you,” said Thor. “I-I heard your screams. The servants believe you have taken leave of your senses.”

Loki laughed, finding his brother’s hesitation very endearing.

“And what do _you_ believe?” he asked.

“I… barely understand what has happened,” said Thor. “For the last year, you have been like a stranger to me. It’s as if there was a devil inside you, brother…”

“A _devil_?” roared Loki, suddenly, snatching his foot away. He stood up and strode off, pacing the room like a panther in his cage as he spoke, his gestures invigorated with a great fury. “Is your understanding really so limited, or do you perhaps not believe that being lied to all my life is a good enough reason for my wrath? To be told one is less than one really is, to be made to bow to one’s own brother, to be made to call him ‘young sir’, and ‘young master’, as if we did not share the same blood? To learn that I was born a bastard to a woman who was deceived and cajoled and dishonoured and betrayed, and then abandoned and cast away, by a man who now denies me his name? And then to be told not to make such a fuss about it! Take your pittance, keep your mouth shut, and protect the honour of the family! The _honour_ of the family…! And then to be made to watch our father in his widower's cloak, with that accursed reliquary around his neck holding a lock of your mother’s hair, imparting advice and justice in the land! That hundred-times accursed hypocrite, who used to tumble my mother in the hay, while yours withered in her deathbed! Why didn’t he send me away with my mother, why? Why keep me here, next to you, only to teach me to bow to you and be second to you in all things! When I share your blood and his, when I am as much an heir to this place as you are!”

“Your words cause me much sadness and grief,” said Thor. “But all your grievances don’t justify your actions. If you believe that you deserve our father’s name, why don’t you strive to live up to it?”

“Oh, I do!” exclaimed Loki. “I do more justice to our father’s heritage than you ever have. I’m a drunkard, a brawler, a thief, a degenerate, a…”

Thor slapped his face, a desperate impulse to interrupt Loki’s tirade. He was rendered speechless, such was the impression caused both by his brother’s words and by the deranged look in his eyes. After his own shock lessened, Loki cackled. It was a sound full of spite and contempt, and his semblance was terrifying - his eyes touched with madness, blood in his teeth, the very fatigue and pallor of his face; like a vision from a nightmare. 

“All the things they say about you…” muttered Thor, with horror.

“And then some,” said Loki. “Now they all know about Odin and his stock, what we are really made of.”

“We?”

Loki’s smile acquired a new accent of malice. He paced his following words with cruel deliberation, to make sure Thor didn't miss even one.

“Do you believe that you have escaped the corruption of this house? Do you think I haven’t noticed how you look at me?”

Thor’s countenance turned ashen. It seemed to please Loki to no end. His brother pulled at the laces of the neck of his chemise. The wide collar fell open, exposing graceful clavicles, white skin, the body Thor had last seen in the shape of a boy’s, now gilded with all the attractions of a young man. Thor drew his gaze away, knowing that to do so amounted to owning his guilt; but he was being made to choose between the lesser of two evils, and he could feel his flesh already wakening to the call of Loki's flesh.

“Yes, _brother_ ,” Loki turned the word in his mouth with relish, like a sip of exquisite wine, “I know what’s in your thoughts. I know what your heart wants. I know what you want in _here…_ ” His hand reached low. 

Thor quickly gripped his wrist, and held him away from him. For a moment, there was a pulse, a _tour de force,_ involving both muscles and wills. Even with his gaze kept away from Loki's face, Thor sensed his relentless stare, and guessed his unflinching smirk. Loki’s intimate proximity was making him tremble like a flame. 

“Perhaps if I wore a skirt… Would that be easier for you?” said Loki. “Or perhaps not?”

Thor did confront his brother’s gaze this time, vexed by his insinuations. 

“Yes, I know your kind, brother,” whispered Loki. “I have _known_ your kind. There is no corruption I haven’t tasted. I have yet to find one that suits me ill.”

“Corruption, is that what it is to you?” grunted Thor, finding himself so affected, that his voice was thick and difficult to articulate into words.

“If you do it right,” smirked his brother wickedly. 

“I don’t like you like this.” 

“Oh?” said Loki. “And how _do_ you like me, _brother_?”

He leaned closer, his mouth parted and wanton and extremely alluring, and Thor’s back hit the wall behind him as he receded. He was trapped, cornered. Loki reached with his free hand to caress Thor’s face, but his expression showed nothing but the callous delight of a cat toying with his prey, with not a hint of affection or warmth in his semblance. Thor tilted his head to avoid the touch of Loki's hand, and his brother's countenance changed abruptly, contorting suddenly with anger and contempt, offended by Thor’s repulsion.

“I want things to be the way they used to be,” said Thor. “I want my Loki back, my companion, my friend.”

“You mean you want your fucking lackey back,” hissed Loki. “You want to go back to the days when I followed you like a puppy dog, deferring to you in all things, while in your grace you condescended to grant me your friendship and your affection, even though I was nothing but the son of a lowly stable hand!”

“That was never so!” protested Thor. “You do me such injustice! I always treated you as an equal! You were my friend, my brother, the mate of my soul!”

“Of your _soul_?” mocked Loki.

“Yes, my soul!” exclaimed Thor. “You were my everything, my beloved, my one.” He shuddered with the weight of that confession. Because even if he thought Loki must have known his feelings, he had never spoken them out loud in such an open way for a long time, not since they exchanged their vows as children.

When Loki did not retort immediately, but held his breath and regarded Thor for a long time, as if the impression left on him by Thor’s utterance had left him speechless, Thor dared to hope that he had reached him.

“Oh, a true son of Odin,” said Loki at length; and already his tone was revealing that his fury had not abated in the least. “I wonder if your father spoke as sweetly to my mother, before she lifted her skirt in the stables, as he made her spread her legs, and fucked her in the hay, like beasts! As he took from her all the things he did not wish to submit your mother to!”

“Loki!” roared Thor, horrified by such brashness and the unwanted visions it put in his mind.

“Is the truth too much to bear?”

“Why?” cried Thor. “Why must you punish me for my father’s sins? Why must you punish yourself?”

“And why not!” Loki roared back. “Must my mother be the only one to suffer over this? Banished from her home town to a faraway part of the country, to save your father the embarrassment, while Odin and his son pay no penance, but thrive and prosper, and walk around as if they were honourable men!”

“Well, now we suffer!”

“Oh, you don’t even know the meaning of the word, brother! I’m only just getting started!”

“And when will it be enough? When my father’s reputation and my future in this province lay in ruins, when you rot in gaol for your crimes, or dangle from a rope, when we have all been destroyed by your vengeance, will that satisfy you?”

“Satisfaction is not in my nature.”

“So let it rest! Do not destroy us both on account of a past in which we had no bearing and no saying! Or is your hatred for our father greater than your love for me?”

“My _love_ for you, Odinson? Oh, please!”

And he had not said the words, not really, and he had not been able to meet Thor’s eyes, but the spite in his voice had still sunk in Thor’s heart like a blade of ice.

“I don’t like you like this,” said Thor, without passion this time, only sadness and exhaustion. “I wish I had the words to speak my heart and my love, and move you to come back to us, but I do not have them. I cannot muster them when I see you standing so far beyond my reach. I came here in the hope that my brother was still there somewhere, but that hope no longer exists. My remaining here is pointless. I’ll pray for you. Godspeed.”

His hand was turning the handle, when an animal howl poured out of his brother’s mouth. Thor turned to see him hit his own head with closed fists and vicious strength, and pull his hair, screaming as tears streamed down his face in a flood. 

“God help me…” muttered Thor, and rushed to his brother. As he struggled to grab hold of his wrists and stop Loki from this attack on himself, Thor realised he was being granted a glimpse of the state of his brother’s soul, of the conflict that raged within, just beneath the veneer of control, concealed under those vicious words of hatred and spite. There was so much pain. And how could he not be ravished and torn apart, when his own mind subjected him to such torments? Loki was his own worst enemy. He thought himself unworthy, and then strived to make himself so. He starved for love and validation, and yet the demon within pushed back and bit the hand that wished to deal that love, for his weakness, for his need. Thor did not know the source from whence all that pain did flow, and he did not know how to stem it, but in that moment of clarity, Thor understood that he would always love his brother, no matter what. Even as Loki sunk a knife into his heart, Thor would still love him and forgive him, since he was helpless to stop Loki’s pain, or ease it by shouldering a share of it. 

Loki struggled, twisted and writhed in his arms.

“Unhand me, brute! Let go of me!” 

Loki had not a chance to be free of his brother’s hold by force, of course, certainly not in his diminished state. But he wasn’t without resources. With eyes that blazed and burned, Loki kissed Thor on the mouth, with a lewdness aimed at shocking his brother, fill him with horror, and chase him away like a soul fleeing from the devil. But it seemed as if Thor had aged ten years and lived an entire lifetime in the last hour alone. Yes, he was startled at first, the touch of lips and tongue and teeth so new, but the nature of his love for Loki did not shame him anymore. Not tonight, and never again. And he had longed for those kisses since the day he had become a man. God help him, he had no strength to refuse them now, in spite of the spirit in which they were being given, not when his body was heeding the call of that touch, and his skin and his blood and his very soul were awakening to it, singing like they never had before for anyone else, and never would again. If there was Hell to pay, so be it. People sinned all the time, petty faults they committed mindlessly, out of laziness and boredom and lack of care. At least Thor would trade his soul for something that was worth it. He returned the kiss, with hunger, with heat.

Loki jerked back and froze still, his rage blown out by the shock. And in that shock, his countenance acquired an innocent, helpless quality, which reminded Thor of the boy his brother once was, the one who had regarded him with so much affection as Thor slipped a ring of gold with a sapphire on his finger.

“I love you more than I love the salvation of my soul,” Thor whispered, tenderly stroking his brother’s face. “I would give my life for yours; it’s your due, it always has been. I shall give you all that I have, and all that I come to own. I shall give you our father’s shame and your revenge, if that will soothe your pain. I shall give you his name, if you still want it. The reputation of our house, this state and all its wealth, they mean nothing to me, if holding onto them means that I must lose you. All I have ever wanted is for us to be together as one. To touch heaven in this life, since I shall not know it in the next.”

“You fool…” said Loki, as out of words as he was out of breath, his brother’s conviction overcoming him and razing his every reproach to the ground. Thor was holding his heart in his hands, in offering. Meanwhile, Loki remained in a stunned silence. The reply he was withholding hung like a sword over Thor’s neck, ready to strike. Would Loki swing it? Thor closed his eyes.

Loki kissed him, a kiss as chaste as the very first one they had shared, but this one lingered. And as it lingered, skilled and self-assured, it quickly grew in ardour and urgency. Thor could barely keep up, and match touch for touch, for Loki’s kiss demonstrated an experience and an awareness of a kind still unavailable to him. Soon, it must have become evident to Loki that Thor hardly knew what he was asking for, or what he was giving. Loki broke the embrace, and regarded his brother warmly.

“I will take you to bed, if you wish,” he whispered. “But know that this deed cannot be undone. Don’t make me choose for you.”

If Thor had still harboured any doubts, this tender show of scruples on his brother’s part did away with the last of them. Thor undid the lacing at the neck of his own chemise, and took off the garment. He drew his brother close to him.

“I am yours,” he whispered. “Please, take me, have me. Unmake me.”

They strew blankets and cloaks on the hard floor, and laid there together. Loki took the lead, and Thor eagerly followed. If Thor knew too little, Loki knew too much. Although Thor did not know what to ask for, or how, Loki could read him like an open book; he could read both his fears and his desires, as they emerged unformed, and understand them. He would respond to them in ways that made Thor feel he was coming apart, undone, and fear he must surely die. There may be more perfect pleasures, more practiced, better polished and honed, but there never were any that were sweeter. Their intimacy left Thor shaken to the core.

When their transports became calmer, they lay in each other’s arms, drawing heat from one another. They whispered between kisses, and mumbled the idle thoughts such aftermath often inspires, and each time their eyes met, it seemed to Thor the hammer fell again to temper their bond into an unbreakable metal. 

As a silver clarity began to pour from the window, chasing the night away, Thor renewed his oath. Again he pledged all he had, all he was, in exchange for his brother’s patience and endurance. 

“We can have it all, if you will just wait. Please, brother, wait.”

Loki remained quiet in his arms, except for a single utterance.

“Fool.”

 

 

When the cockerel sang, they came for Loki. They found them unclothed and together, and neither made a sound to explain it away, leaving no doubt as to what had transpired that night between them. 

When their father heard of it, a stroke fell him on the spot, leaving half of his body paralysed, but his mind clear enough to command that his orders regarding Loki were carried out at once. Thor would be punished, being made to labour and live like a serf until his father’s death, but for now, although his eyes followed the coach that carried his brother away with an ache in his heart, he was feeling hopeful. He did not know that morning that it would be the last time he would ever see him.

 

 

 

______oOo______

 

 

 

 

“Steve, now!”

They pulled with all their might, the rope lifted and tensed, and Rochefort’s horse, in the lead, stumbled upon it and bit the dust, causing the animal just behind to trip and throw off its rider. Amidst a cloud of dust, Steve and Thor fired their muskets, startling men and beasts alike, their shrieking neighs and stomping hooves all adding to the confusion. The first man who had gone down was the first one on his feet and on his guard, Rochefort. Thor advanced, sword in hand. Rochefort was sly and quick, but Thor was just as nimble, and much stronger. 

“To me, you idiots!” exclaimed Rochefort, parrying Thor’s blows as he could. 

“Thor, on your left!”

Three attacked at once. Thor had great method and experience, but even more than that, when several men were upon him, a certain killing joy overtook his mind and his limbs, and although he became less refined in his fencing, it seemed as if a secret reserve of strength and vigour were unleashed. He disarmed the one by piercing him through the shoulder, and with an unorthodox, but very effective kick in the gut, he had him on his back, and rolling to avoid the hooves of the horses. Of the other two, one could not hold the sword in his hand after a particularly powerful wallop. He attempted to fire his musket. Thor threw himself at him, trapping the arm which was holding the gun under his armpit, and whacked him on the face with his own head, immediately putting his lights out. The man fell like a sack of grain. The last man, finding himself facing Thor alone, simply dropped his sword, and made for the fields.

“At least make it a challenge for me!” exclaimed Thor, with a wolfish, bloodthirsty grin, enough to put the fear of the devil in any opponent who faced it.

Steve had been ducking and deflecting and parrying the strikes of the two men who had managed to stay on their horses. Scrupulous as he was, he refused to wound the beasts, and the Cardinal’s men were taking advantage of that, circling around him with their mounts, making them rear up on their hinds and threatening Steve with their hooves and bodies. Nevertheless, Steve managed to stay out from the horses’ way, and repulsed the combined attack of the riders with deftness, brisk steps and spry turns, followed by powerful swings of his sword. Once Thor was free of his own adversaries, he was upon Steve’s. One on one, even on their horses, the men of the Cardinal were outwitted and outmatched by the King’s men, but they resulted in much better sport on horseback than on foot, and Thor and Steve enjoyed the challenge. But there was one ready to take advantage of their distraction.

“ _Peste_! Rochefort escapes!” cried Steve.

Their main foe had managed to climb back on his horse and flee, while the Musketeers’ attention was elsewhere. And now that Steve’s face was turned, his opponent tried to treacherously strike his fencing arm, but with a clever, powerful downwards parry, Steve caused him to lose his sword. 

Thor turned to see the cloud of dust Rochefort’s horse was rising becoming smaller and smaller as he galloped away.

“Southbound,” noted Thor, as he dodged a blow from his adversary, who had tried to hit him on the face with his boot. “Leave him! We don’t have time!” He drove his sword through the offending leg, and soon his foe was down on the ground.

“Leave him?” said Steve, as he cut the stirrup under his opponent’s foot, and watched him lose balance and fall over as well. “He shall be fetching reinforcements, no doubt!”

“It will be hours before he can find them and gather them. We can use that time to ride north like the devil. With these two,” Thor palmed the flanks of the fine horses he had decided to purloin, “we can make Calais tomorrow.”

They only just spared a few minutes to gather the wounded or unconscious men they had defeated, and drag them to the copse where they would have shade. They left them gagged and bound and tied to a tree, with a goatskin of water. The fifth man, who had escaped and was somewhere in the fields, would surely rescue them and deal with them, but without their horses - which Steve and Thor were taking along, and dispersing those beasts that had fared worse in the skirmish, and would not be able to follow -, they had become useless in this chase.

“No more adventures for you for a few weeks,” said Thor to one man whose side he had pierced, “but be a good boy, and it will mend.”

When he climbed on his horse, Steve noticed the flinch that tensed Thor's brow.

“Thor! You are wounded!” he exclaimed, when he perceived the stain of blood blossoming on the side of his friend's vest.

“Flesh wound,” said Thor. “It’s of no consequence. I’ve had worse.”

“We must stem the bleeding!”

“Oh, I already have,” Thor lifted his doublet, which was undone, to show the sash he had pressed to the wound, subjected with a belt. “Let us go, Steve. For the queen!”

Steve hesitated, for there seemed to be a lot of blood, and his friend had been showing fatigue for the last few hours, but he knew very well Thor was just as headstrong as he. It was of no use insisting he have a rest, so he spared himself and Thor the waste of breath of that pointless discussion. Nevertheless, he beseeched him,

“But swear to me, my friend, that you shall not exert yourself beyond repair. I need you sound when we reach our destination.”

“I swear. I wish to see this adventure to its conclusion as much as you do, or maybe even more so.”

“Well, then. Onwards!”

They spurred their mounts, each with one refreshment horse tied to the saddle, and set off at a gallop down the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imitating Dumas' style is fucking exhausting. I try, but ugh. Apologies to the fans of the master among you. And you may find weird expressions and turns of phrase (the "transports" one is my favourite), which I have lifted straight out of Dumas (as I lifted Rochefort's description, although I've added the scar. Dumas' connoisseurs here, did I make up the man with the scar?)
> 
> By the way, I'm getting a writer's crush on Buckingham, he's the most pompous little shit! and such a lot of fun to write. The historical figure was such a handful too. What a character!


	4. The fake drunken brawl and the true catch of the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor and Steve reach Calais, but must now wait for their friends before they can tackle the Duke and his bodyguards. Thor's, meanwhile, is secretly being torn apart between hope and doubt, and between his duty as a Musketeer, and the desire of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently it's harder than it would appear to research what Calais must have been like in the early XVII century, at least the kind of information and detail I was interested in. (God, I miss my free unlimited JSTOR access.) Anyway, I read a little bit, and used my imagination, and there you go. 
> 
> (To be fair, I'm bullshitting my way through with pretty much everything in this story, god help me, and have absolutely no idea what the hell I'm doing or what I'm talking about.) (The secret is to be bold and fearless and speak authoritatively.) (And try not to snigger.) (More on Calais and all that, see end notes.)

 

The rich marine breeze, with its pungent whiffs of putrid seaweed and salt, announced the proximity of the strait. Thor and Steve were admitted through the gates past the hour of twelve, and obtained directions to _L'auberge du maquereau et de la morue_ , the _hôtel_ where Buckingham’s man should be awaiting for the messenger of the Queen. Finding the place, however, wasn’t all that easy. The directions they had been given relied on landmarks and points of reference neither was familiar with, and the particular quarter they were sent to was such a disordered tangle of streets, it resembled a maze, purposely devised to confound them. 

Steve in particular found it hard to concentrate on the task at hand, since he had seen so little of the world, and it seemed every new turn offered a fresh sight, a fresh sound, and even new scents - although in a city by the sea, one could hardly call these ‘fresh’. He was unaccustomed to the coast and the special flavour of cosmopolitanism inherent to a harbour city, but this town was peculiar among others of its kind, since it was also a frontier and a meeting point between two nations, and a crossroads for many more, the sediments of its frazzled history building up on every corner. Setting it apart even further was the character of Calais as a strategic, and much coveted, military outpost. The citadel was encircled with thick walls that surrounded it in its entirety, the townscape dominated by Fort Neulay. It had traded hands again and again during the centuries, and although the garrison stationed at the fort may have moved as one power or the next claimed governance of the city, its civilian inhabitants tended to stay and mingle. French, English, Dutch, and even Spanish were heard in the streets, and many different influences were apparent in subtle ways, from details in the architecture, to the types of bread for sale at the baker’s shop. The proximity of the fully-garrisoned fort meant that soldiers were a current sight on the streets in town, but also builders, carpenters, masons seemed prominent among the population at present. A hornwork was being added to Fort Neulay to bring behind the walls the sluice gates, which were usually closed, but could be opened in case of attack, flooding the marshes and isolating the citadel from the mainland. 

Thor had been there a long time ago, during the last war with Spain, and was astonished at how much it had changed. For a start, he could not remember where anything was. 

“Was it _Chez_   _Les Poissons et les Apâts_  or _Chez_   _Les Apâts et Les Poissons_  we had to pass before we turned left?” asked Thor, cussing to himself, for that street seemed to be lined almost exclusively by inns and guesthouses, and the _hôteliers_ of Calais suffered a painful lack of imagination when it came to naming their establishments. And Steve, of course, with his eyes and mouth wide as a lidless angler fish to take in the new sounds and sights, was of little help.

They finally found _L'auberge du maquereau et de la morue_ some time past the hour of two in the afternoon, after roaming the streets of the small coastal town for far longer than their anxiousness and their exhausted frames would have wished, and their prides would admit.

The moment they stepped inside the _hôtel_ , Thor felt his shoulders and his whole body instinctively tense and set _en garde_.

“Steve, look,” he whispered, as he discreetly led his friend to a table, not far from the door, should they need to make a hasty escape. He pointed to a group of six men stationed by the stairs, engaged in a noisy game of cards. One of them, the one who struck Thor as the best endowed in terms of brains, had only half a mind devoted to the game. One eye he cast to scan the room constantly. He had noticed them both when they had entered, perceived their soldierly build and stride, the weapons at their belts, and now kept checking on them discreetly, awaiting for the Musketeers to make their intentions known. 

Thor observed the six men at the table in turn. Their brutish builds alone would have given them away, but many other things revealed to Thor’s keen eye their occupation. The presence and number of the scars on their face, (and there were bound to be more concealed under their clothes) could not be mistaken, and neither could the very appearance of those scars, their sizes and shapes. War had put them there, not an accident at the farm, or a carpenter’s tool in the hand of a clumsy apprentice, and a military surgeon had mended them with professional and well-practiced hands, much more skilled — and much more expensive — than any country quack most yeomen and ordinary tradesmen could afford, but with little time for fussing. They reminded Thor of those he himself had, and those he had seen on men in his same business. So, he concluded, men of war of some description, six of them, biding their time in a tavern in the middle of the afternoon, but hardly as fully in possession of their time as they wished to appear. They were working, Thor could tell from the systematic yet collected attention of the one he judged the leader, and from their watered-down wine and beer, of which yet another pitcher had just been brought to their table and diligently mixed. Now, after a few minutes observing and listening carefully, Thor was able to discern an array of accents in their French speech, indicating that their origins were located in several different regions of France. Furthermore, three of them were clearly foreigners. Mercenaries, certainly. Soldiers on leave from the fort? Perhaps, but how many soldiers could afford an entire, unmarked new set of clothes, besides those they had to own for their job? Those garments did not pertain to the soldiers of the French crown. And there were some flamboyant details here and there: golden buttons, a starched neck, a dash of lace… These men needed to appear trustworthy and of some repute, and donned clothes that would leave that impression on rich men who noticed that sort of thing. So, hired muscle was the more likely possibility. Somebody had handpicked those men with an eye very much on the forbidding impression they made. Bodyguards, six of them, imposing, positioned not at all randomly by the foot of the staircase, keeping an eye on whoever came or went from that _hôtel_ , and guarding the access to the first floor, where the guests were lodged.

“It’s Buckingham himself waiting for you in this place,” concluded Thor. “He’s in a chamber upstairs. And with Milady too, I’d bet my right eye.”

Steve enquired as to the signs upon which Thor based his deduction. After he had them exposed before him, he too concurred with Thor’s assessment.

“Seems certain,” granted Steve. “So, what is our next step? Shall I introduce myself, ask to see Buckingham? I’ll show the seal printed with his signet ring on that empty envelope, and he will know I come from the Queen.”

Thor’s countenance, for the first time since Steve had met him, showed indecision. 

“Milady,” he objected.

“What about her?” asked Steve.

“If she’s up there, we cannot underestimate her. The Trickster is known for his sharp tongue, his quick wits, for warping minds with his words as if they cast a spell. And the duke knows Milady, and has known her for years, and surely he trusts her fully, but he has never met us before, Queen’s signet or no. If we just barge in there and accuse the Trickster of his treacheries, all he has to do is disavow our word and appeal for the duke’s help. Who is the duke going to believe? There’s no telling, but before we know it, we may find ourselves having to deal with all six bodyguards at once, while the Trickster escapes in the tussle, with your parcel and the duke’s. Before we reveal our presence here, we must make sure that we hold control of the situation, and are able to retain it at all times, no matter what the Trickster attempts in order to protect himself.”

“How do we achieve that?”

“Before we even make ourselves known to the duke, and so to the Trickster, we must first rid ourselves of the bodyguards. If the Duke should call for their aid, he’ll find himself quite alone, and then perhaps we’ll have his full attention, and some time to imprint on him the grim, disappointing truth about his lover of many years.”

Steve turned his eye to the mercenaries, who were drinking hard and laughing loudly, but seemed far from weakened by either spirits or distraction. Even he suffered a moment of scruple.

“Half a dozen, and built like bulls,” he mused. Then he shrugged his concerns away. “Well, perhaps in such a confined space, their bulkiness will thwart rather than give them an advantage. Shall we divide them with a roll of dice, or improvise as they come? Though if that oaf with the twice broken nose should come to you, would you be so kind as to send him my way before you finish him? He appears to be able to offer some excellent sport.”

Thor laughed.

“My dear, rash friend. I swear it’s only your promise to your sweet old mother to come back from Paris in one piece that prevents you from taking on all of them at once, and makes you willing to part with three. You’d just jump on their table and cry, “ _en garde!_ ”, would you not? But we cannot risk the chance of not prevailing in this fight.”

“What choice do we have?”

“Our friends are on their way. We can be confident that, as long as the place is quiet and seems safe, the Duke will not depart, not until his business in France is settled, but will keep waiting for the Queen’s messenger. And we have to trust that he will not dismiss Milady for a few hours yet. Perhaps even days, if the legends about the duke’s appetite and the Trickster’s prowess in bed are to be believed. We should wait.”

“But, Rochefort, you said we should assume he is on his way, with reinforcements! What if he and his party should make it here before our friends?”

“Indeed, there is risk in the strategy I suggest.”

“Is that risk more tolerable than facing the bodyguards on our own?”

Again, Thor’s brow furrowed with hesitation.

“I pray it is,” he said. Which again, wasn’t like himself at all. “Let’s give it a few hours at least. If our friends are not in town by nightfall, we reconsider.”

“What if the Trickster escapes while we wait?”

“We shall patrol. We must find out if there are any more of Buckingham’s men in the area, and we must prepare some diversion to outdo the ones inside, both counting on our friends and also by ourselves, should we come to that. Come, we have much to discuss.”

 

 

They found a tavern across the street, with a big window of diamond-paned glass from which they could observe the _hôtel_. When they separated, it was with a number of plans of action up their sleeves, and with the agreement of meeting again in this same tavern when their friends arrived. 

By the tavern there was a group of seven or eight little boys playing a crude game of ball, fishermen's children with time on their hands now that their fathers had gone to sea for the night, and their mothers to prepare their supper. For a piece of copper each, they were happy to pass messages between them, and so the two Musketeers parted, Steve to watch the gates, to greet their friends and guide them with swiftness and assurance through the narrow streets of the citadel, while Thor stayed behind and patrolled the surroundings of the inn. Unless a change occurred, every hour or so, one of the little boys would be sent back and forth between them with a brief message, “no news.” 

 

The hours passed and the Musketeers’ disquiet increased. If their friends were to delay much longer… Had they found the letters Thor and Steve had left at the inns on the road to Bretagne, urging them on, guiding them, begging them to make haste? Had they read the warnings to beware of Rochefort? What if they had been attacked by a new pack of their old foe’s ruffians? What if they lay dead in a ditch by the road?

Dusk came and went, and night did fall. Steve sent a little boy over to Thor, saying, “It’s dark. Ask him, what next?” Thor turned back Steve’s little messenger with these words, “All is quiet and well here. Let’s give them another hour.” Much depended on tonight. There had been many occasions in his life as a Musketeer when he had been rash, mindless of the consequences, and that very boldness had been what made him prevail. Moreover, he knew that Steve’s skill in combat and his own united were perfectly capable of taking on six men. Sure, they may suffer many more injuries than they would in a more even engagement, but conquer, they could, and they very well might. So why so much precaution tonight? Why so much timidity? This was a grave affair indeed, and the kingdom faced tremendous consequences, but that was not the reason why he refused to leave the outcome of this endeavour to chance. France had very high stakes in this affair, but so did Thor.

As he toured around the building once more, passing the narrow back alley behind the _hôtel_ , suddenly, he heard a noise that drew his eye upwards. He rushed to confound his shadow with one in the street, his heart beating strongly in his temples and ears, pounding in his chest, and waited perfectly still. Somebody had opened a window on the first floor, where the duke must be lodged; Thor could not see their face from where he was hiding. With his respiration agitated almost to match his heart, Thor prayed silently. Show thyself, he muttered to the unseen person who had just opened that window to the night. Show thyself. Show me white hands, raven-black hair, show me eyes green as the sea, show me. 

Let it be him, he prayed, and again, and clutching his chest, which ached with a breathless oppression, he prayed again: let it _not_ be him.

The description Steve had given of the Trickster had kindled a spark of hope in his spirit, that days later had come to burn like a blaze, and was now impervious to reason. He could almost feel his brother’s presence. It has to be him, his heart was telling him, it has to be. So persuaded he was, so desperate for it to be true, he had fashioned possibility into hard fact, and now clung to it with all his might. You fool, he chided himself, (though he knew it to be in vain) engage your common sense, use your brain; what are the chances? Would it not be wise to hold on to some prevention, some skepticism? Your heart is not as young and supple as it used to be. If it’s broken this time, who is to say it shall ever mend? Wait and see, you dimwit, before you commit all your hopes to this one meagre possibility. 

And what if it _was_ him indeed? What then? The King’s orders were clear and ruthless: Apprehend the Trickster, and rouse the magistrate from bed if need be, for at any time of day or night, within the hour of his entering the King’s justice, so that there is no time for yet one more miraculous escape, the man they call the Trickster is to be indicted, judged (only testimonies as to his identity shall be heard), and condemned. He must meet his end by decapitation immediately after, and then his body is to be burnt to ashes, which are to be scattered at a cross-roads to confuse his spirit, in case his legend is true and he is a sorcerer, a demon, or a witch. No allowances were contemplated, no doubts, and no confusions. His friends surely considered no other options than to carry out the king’s orders as they stood, and why shouldn’t they? Even Thor’s Musketeer heart concurred that such a sly, fiendish creature deserved no less, that his crimes against the crown were many and grievous, that he had caused the King many losses, and endless headaches, and that to deprive Richelieu of one of his greatest agents would be a blessing upon every French man or woman loyal to Louis.

But if it _was_ his brother… 

Thor kept telling himself as of late, harden thy spirit, temper your heart’s desire, because for all intents and purposes, your brother is dead and has been for many years, and the man they call the Trickster was the one who killed him. He killed him, and then under your brother’s guise he committed unspeakable crimes, made him crawl through the filthiest gutters, and has condemned your brother’s soul to Hell. You have greater cause than the rest of France to wish revenge upon that demon. So Thor repeated and repeated to himself, trying to imprint it in his mind, in his heart, that he could wall-in his longing and sever the thread he still felt connecting his brother’s heart to his own. But those were all lies, and what a hypocrite Thor would be to deny that he knew who his brother was, and what he was capable of, when he gave himself fully to him. Those transgressions Loki had confessed to him, and proudly owned, their last night together, seemed to Thor now the first stumbling toddles of a babe down a certain path, which the Trickster now paced with the full confidence of maturity and experience. No, the Trickster had not murdered his brother, but simply grown from him. 

If he saw the face of the brother he had loved in that room with Buckingham, Thor would have to stop making excuses and face the truth, all of it, that Loki was the Trickster, Cardinal Richelieu’s Spy of Spies, master assassin and poisoner, revealer of secrets and weaver of lies, thief, traitor, whore, bane of the King of France.

Aye, thought Thor, if Loki was the Trickster, then he was all of these things, but also one more: despite all his crimes, he was still Thor’s brother, and his beloved, the shadow weighing at all hours over Thor’s heart. If the door to that room should open to reveal Loki’s face, how was Thor to ever carry out the king’s orders to deliver him to justice, and let him be executed and torn from his side once again and for good? After years and years of trying to conjure him back to life with the sole strength and endurance of his love, how could he ever be expected to stain his hands with Loki's blood, regardless of the blood on Loki's own?

Ah, foolish, desperate man, what will you do instead? Fight your friends, your comrades-in-arms, your companions of so many years? Turn on them and fight them to the death, for the sake of the soulless scoundrel you call brother and they, Richelieu’s dog? Would you? Could you? Thor leaned against the wall in the dark, and tried to ease his breathing and stem the surge of tears, for he was being ripped apart.

A loud chuckle was heard, and then a lighter one, and a big, burly hand reached for the shutters to close them. Shadows fell upon the narrow street behind the _hôtel_ once again. 

With a heavy sigh, Thor continued his slow perambulation, his back and shoulders slumped with his many concerns, and doubts, and preoccupations, as those of old Atlas under the burden of the skies.

 

 

“Monsieur! Monsieur!” One of the little rascals who had been running between Steve at the gates and himself at the inn appeared beside him, panting from his run. “Your friend says, your companions have arrived, and to meet them where you agreed!”

Thor offered his gratitude to the child in spoken form, to which the boy was tepid, and in the form of a small silver coin, which delighted him much more. 

“We shall have no more need of you tonight. Go home.”

“Good night, monsieur!” With his treasure tightly held in the grip of his small hand, the boy ran to find his young companions, while Thor rushed to the tavern to meet his own.

“My friends! Such a relief!” He embraced them all, his hearty pats on their shoulders and backs rising a cloud of dust from the road. “Have you been followed?”

“We reckon not,” said Tony. “Certainly not after we got the message you left for us in that inn by the watermill. We would have been more diligent from the moment we set out, but since your first need at the time was haste…”

“Any sign of Rochefort?”

“None.”

“Has Steve already caught you up with our adventures and our plans?”

“He was in the middle of it.”

Thor gestured for Steve to finish his recount, although he was very restless and full of urgency. And even though his friends had all availed themselves of a drink to wash down the dust and exhaustion of their long journey, Thor rather uncharacteristically turned down the offer of a glass of wine, so very nervous was he.

Once the Musketeers were up to date, and once they were clear on the stratagem Steve and Thor had devised to storm the _hôtel_ and overwhelm the bodyguards, hopefully with very little spillage of blood, they all stood heavily back on their feet.

“I may be getting too old for this,” grumbled Bruce, wincing as he stretched his back. He had, after all, been riding with very little rest for days now. And Tony walked with a rather ungainly rigidity, to conceal perhaps the protestations of his knees and his mauled behind. Clint seemed unperturbed, but then again, Thor had seen him pluck a dagger from his side without so much as a flinch. Next to them, in spite of the demonic, exhausting speed they had maintained for days, with only a few hours of rest, Steve was as sprightly as a pup, and no less eager. Bless them all, thought Thor. Best brothers-in-arms a man could hope for.

 

Their ploy was simple enough, its method one of the oldest: divide and conquer. After blocking the back door with a sack of coal, and taking the precaution of putting crockery and metal pots they had purloined on the sills of the ground floor windows, so that the shatter of breakage would alert them should anyone inside attempt to escape, they all took first positions in strategic places in the several alleys which converged in the small square by the _hôtel_. Tony and Bruce were to pretend to be embroiled in a drunken brawl, and cause as much disturbance and annoyance as they could. The Musketeers hoped that at least some of the men inside would emerge, out of curiosity if not out of diligence — any half-decent bodyguard worth their salt would come to assess any perturbation, to put their minds at ease that the brawl had nothing to do with their employer, or threaten to affect him in any way. Tony and Bruce would recover soon enough from their feigned debauchery and take on those men, covered by Clint if necessary, while Steve and Thor would burst into the inn and face the men that had stayed behind, and if not overcome them, hold them until their friends were finished outside and were able to come in aid. They hoped that the general discordance and chaos would work in their favour, for the Musketeers would know what had unleashed it, but the bodyguards would have to waste precious seconds trying to discern what was going on, assess the gravity of the threat, and decide on the best use of their resources. 

Bruce and Tony turned their liveries inside out to conceal their Musketeer’s blue, that they would pass more easily in the first moments for two simple, anonymous drunks. They also dirtied their faces with coal and doused the collars and cuffs of their shirts with strong, smelly ale, more for a habit of thoroughness when devising and implementing schemes, than a true belief that such minor details as the way they smelled would make a big difference in the success or failure of that mission. Thor and Steve crouched in the shadows, swords in hand. Clint had perched in a first floor balcony across the street, giving him a bird’s eye view of the action.

It was not yet the full moon, but the night was rather bright. As convened, the Musketeers waited for the bells to chime the eleventh hour. On the sixth strike, Bruce and Tony each stumbled and shuffled from different alleys, and bumped rather rudely into each other in the middle of the street. In loud enough voices that the neighbours would be annoyed, and the patrons of the _hôtel_ and the nearby tavern alerted, Bruce apologised, slurring his words, and Tony didn’t. Bruce made a harsh comment about manners of those of a certain kind, which Tony quickly demanded he retract. By then, two scullery maids had come out of the kitchen, still drying their hands, to enjoy the spontaneous entertainment. 

Discussing turned to shoving, then Bruce slapped Tony’s face. Still keeping up the act of the drunken revellers, fumbling clumsily as he chewed his words and burped and hiccoughed, Tony withdrew his sword, and Bruce in response withdrew his. They clashed, faking a sluggishness and heaviness in their blows to further suggest intoxication. As they exchanged insults, they tripped and pushed each other from side to side of the street, clanking their swords on anything that would make a noise, with particular attention on the small glass panes of the front window of the _hôtel_.

“Hey! Careful, blast you!” came an outraged voice from within.

Finally, the main door of the inn burst open. And, just as they had hoped, two of Buckingham’s bodyguards came out, enquiring what was the matter, while the _hôtelier_ demanded explanations in a loud, angry tone, from his refuge behind their backs. 

“This-this kumpbin, bimkump, bump-bumpkin here, h-he called me a hour-gead! A gourd-head, that is!” blabbered Tony, and let out a thick burp.

“Come now, it’s past eleven. Break it up, make your peace, and leave quietly, lest the night watch be roused, and you find yourselves in trouble with the constables,” urged one of the bodyguards, quite reasonably, addressing them as he would a pair of children.

“Bring it!” bellowed Tony, raising his sword, “We country mimkups fear no wight-natch!”

“Messieurs, please, important gentlemen of elevated station are enjoying the hospitality of my establishment, could you please take your grievances somewhere else?” pleaded the _hôtelier_.

Bruce and Tony did not relent. They were going at each other with weak, cross-eyed blows, while subtly backing away from the _hôtel_ , that Thor and Steve would have a margin to sneak in and block the doors from within, before the bodyguards without were alerted.

"Messieurs, I beg you!" insisted the _hôtelier_.

“Taking libertiesh now, Monshieur?” protested Tony, as the tallest one made to grab his arm, visibly willing to drag him away by force.

“Take your paw off! This one’s mine, find your own!” scrambled Bruce, as he launched for Tony and his assailant. That made the second bodyguard come in assistance of his comrade, and now the whole group was a good six paces away from the door of the _hôtel_. Tony, rather miraculously it seemed, abruptly recovered his posture, his composure, and his sobriety.

“One for all!” he called.

“And all for one!” responded his companions. 

The bodyguards were fully armed. They were not as quick to take stock of the situation and react as they would have required to regain control, but once they understood the ploy, they were able to come at Tony and Steve not without resources. Tony engaged them with his usual coolness, which would only alter to allow a feral smirk to shine on his face. Bruce, for his part, in combat became a behemoth of rage and incomprehensible strength, which made him appear four times as tall, as broad, and as heavy, and ten times more dangerous, than his quiet, unassuming, good-natured appearance and disposition would ever lead to believe. 

Meanwhile, Steve and Thor broke into the tavern with as much noise and fury as they could unleash, with wild battle cries and much vigour, that the bodyguards would not at first realise they outnumbered the assailants two to one. They fought with everything there was at hand, distracting their opponents by hurling at them whatever cup or piece of cutlery or crockery within their reach. 

The squabble was short-lived. Bruce, Clint, and Tony had soon dispatched their adversaries in the street, causing them to drop their weapons and flee, once they realised they were no match, not in swordsmanship nor determination, for those whom they had believed no more than a couple of drunks. Tony and Bruce rushed inside the _hôtel_  in aid of their companions, but they saw at once they were not needed, and took a seat to enjoy the show. Thor had put the lights out of his first adversary with a very well-aimed three-legged stool to the head, and was now chasing his other opponent over tables and toppled chairs. The bodyguard was far from unskilled, and Thor had judged his brain with accuracy. While they fenced and parried half-way up the stairs, the bodyguard was either lucky, or very observant, because he aimed a very assured blow right into Thor’s side, where his recent wound, acquired in the squabble with Rochefort’s men, was still far from mended. Thor folded in on himself, coughing, and the bodyguard shoved him down the stairs. Thor rolled and tumbled for a few rises, before he could grab on to the banister and arrest his fall. While Thor was confused, the bodyguard jumped over him and ran towards the door.

His friends raised to come in aid, but before they completed the gesture, Thor was up, and in a most athletic move, he jumped in the air and grabbed the iron chandelier dangling from the ceiling, using its pendulous sway to propel himself across the room, and block his adversary’s escape. He engaged him there again. Their friends cheered and nodded to each other with appreciation, delighted with a most satisfying manoeuvre. Tony raised the cup of wine he had helped himself to, since the _hôtelier_ was ducked somewhere behind the counter. Thor was now aware that his foe knew to aim for his vulnerable wounded side, and was not to be caught unprepared again. He continued to gain on him, pushing him back inside the _hôtel_.

Meanwhile Steve, as was his specialty, was fighting both of his opponents at once, using for a shield a metal tray he had taken from a maid, who Clint spied currently hiding under a table. As he parried a blow of one of his foes, disarming him with a swift move, Steve slammed his makeshift shield into the other man’s throat, causing him to drop his weapon to hold his neck, choking. Steve then took the chance to grab the collar of his chemise and shove him against his other adversary, head first. It hit the stunned bodyguard in the chest. Now both men were spluttering and coughing from the hit and lack of air, and Steve seemed content to have prevailed. Clint came from behind each of the men’s back, and put them to sleep with perfectly aimed hits with the hilt of his sword. And now, free of their occupations, they all went to see Thor play cat and mouse with the one he had signalled out as the leader of the pack. Emboldened by his audience, Thor dealt a bone-breaking blow on his opponent’s wrist, sending his sword flying across the room, and then he grabbed the bodyguard’s neck with a strong squeeze.

“Your master’s chambers? Speak, villain!” 

As it turns out, there was no need for such. At once, there was a noise from upstairs, a door slamming hard against a wall, and Georges Villiers, first Duke of Buckingham, appeared sword in hand at the top of the stairs, with tousled hair, breeches badly done, shirt rumpled, a healthy flush on his cheeks and around his mouth. He had obviously been engaged in an intimate pursuit of some description and had dressed in a hurry.

“What is the meaning of this?” he called, dignified, his tone authoritative, used to issue commands that would be obeyed at once.

Steve rushed up the stairs, passing a quite startled and indignant favourite of England on his way. The Musketeer scanned the corridor stretching to either side.

There! The second door to the left was only pushed to, a sliver of light trickling underneath. He burst into the chamber, and… Holy Mary and All the Saints, the Trickster was still elegantly draped on the bed, not a single stitch on, but for a scant linen sheet mindlessly thrown over his middle to cover his modesty. His hair was in as black and disordered a state, his lips as red and debauched, and his eyes as wanton and sweet, as the last image of him Steve remembered, and still carried very fresh in his mind. The Trickster was smirking at him, unfazed, and seemingly untroubled by the interruption — if anything, his expression was a tad smug.

“My darling boy,” he purred. “Took you long enough…”

“How dare you!” barked Buckingham behind Steve’s back.

Then the Trickster’s eyes looked beyond the two men, and widened with an indescribable, complex blend of emotions Steve could not parse. 

Steve’s eyes were still unable to leave the form of the man who had stolen his heart, his innocence, his days and nights, his peace of mind, his self-respect, and his bloody good name with the Queen of France, so he only knew Thor was now there in the room because he heard his voice, in a muted whisper, gasping,

“Loki…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfaithful is coming. Really. Thorctopus is giving a read to the second draft. SOON. 
> 
> Many abundant thanks to Thorctopus, as always, but do not judge her beta qualities from this chapter, because I've rewritten a lot since she gave this draft a look, and I may have put back in lots of the stuff she took pains to take out, smooth out, and correct.
> 
> also: For illustration on Calais. They're out of date by 50-100 years, but they should give you an idea.
> 
> http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/utk/france/popup/calais.htm  
> http://alteagallery.com/stock_largeimage.php?ref=11180&image=11180.jpg
> 
> With the names of the taverns... I was just having fun. Do French pub-landlords -or the equivalent, whatever they're called- name their establishments like their British counterparts, or have at any time in history? Just curious. Hey, Calais was British for a long time, who knows... (Translation - I hope- The Kipper and Mackerel, The Fish and Bait, and the Bait and Fish.)
> 
> UPDATE: SO, wonderful Isa, who is French, suggested something, "L'auberge du maquereau et de la morue", which comes with a pun for pimp and tart, yay! I'm keeping it. Thank you, my dear!


	5. The Duke and the Trickster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers finally face the Trickster. Whom will Buckingham trust? The Trickster's reaction to having his identity as a spy revealed to the Duke shocks them all.

“Loki…” The name fell off Thor’s lips, like a prayer.

The Trickster’s eyes were wide. On his face, a tumble of expressions in quick succession - apprehension, alert, and even a brief dash of melancholy - promptly suppressed. But before Steve could become properly baffled by that lack of surprise, as if the Trickster had predicted who was going to barge into that chamber after Steve himself, Georges Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, stood before his face. A fine figure of a man, at thirty-five, he was in the apogee of his physical beauty, and he passed, with just title, for the handsomest gentleman and the most elegant cavalier of France or England (although, had they been as famous, the title should have more justly been appointed to either Steve or, before drink and worry had made him age before his time, to Thor). With a shake, Villiers restored the undulations of his marvellous mane of hair, which the latest agitation had disordered, pointed the vigorous line of his nose up to a proud height, set his bearded jaw to a gesture of intransigence, and fixed the Musketeer with dark, piercing eyes.

“Messieurs, I demand an explanation,” he spoke, with an authoritative tone, and a schoolboy’s French.

“Then, an explanation you shall have,” replied Tony, who had just arrived at the scene. 

At this moment, he appeared to be the only one able to speak with the required assurance, since Thor seemed unable to formulate words, and Steve was still dumbstruck, though not due to the sight of the man lying naked on the bed, as his friends would later tease him for, but because of the look in Thor’s eyes, and especially the word on his lips, upon entering the chamber. As for Bruce and Clint, they were both still busy with the Duke’s bodyguards downstairs, ensuring they stayed down and under control; and so, there was just Tony left to deal with His Excellency the Duke - a matter requiring delicacy, as it turned out, rattled as the Englishman was, and quite irate, on the verge of becoming offended beyond repair. Tony displayed admirable diplomacy and skill, as he again addressed the Duke, calmly, and with concision. 

“You must surely recognise our livery, since you have at times donned it yourself, as that of the king’s Musketeers, and as thus you shall know us for devoted servants of the Queen of France, the lady whom you as well profess to serve. We are here on her behalf, and upon her request, and it is us you have been expecting, as per her instructions. You can see the proof for yourself, that you may know we are not impostors.” He turned to address Steve, “Quickly, my friend, show His Excellency the seal.”

Steve pulled the empty envelope out from a secret pocket in the slash of his sleeve, and proffered it towards Lord Buckingham. The Duke took it, and examined the broken lacquered seal on it, imprinted with the signet of his ring. He retained a frowning, severe expression; they had not yet conquered his trust, and now the critical revelation was about to be delivered. The time of truth had come, and the Musketeers had only their wits and their luck to rely on.

“And this man,” continued Tony, gesturing towards the bed, his voice as firm and confident as it had been up until that moment, “is an enemy to both you and the Queen, and to all of us loyal to Louis. He is a spy, and Cardinal Richelieu’s most valuable agent. He is the one they call the Trickster.”

A tense silence followed Tony’s denunciation, as Buckingham beheld each of them in turn, with his mouth half-gaping in utter bafflement, as if expecting the punchline of a joke that wasn’t coming.

“Have you taken leave of your senses, my good man?” he finally said to Tony. “Charles, a spy?”

“Charles?” repeated Steve.

“I went by Charlotte de Winter when we first met,” began to explain the Trickster, with a light, carefree tone and a voice of such pleasant timbre that it caressed and seduced one’s attention, as much as the Duke’s unwavering, booming voice beat it down to submission. The Trickster was reclining on his side, with one arm folded to cushion his head, the other hand free to idly curl a lock of black hair around two fingers, his legs crossed at the ankles, looking entirely relaxed and at ease, as if no part of the scene unfurling around him concerned him at all. He finished his explanation. “When I realised I would fare better with him as a male, I let him pick what to call me, once I had let him in on my little secret.”

“Not so little,” said Tony with a very meaningful, playful dip of his gaze, his attention straying from the matter that occupied him, led away by the Trickster’s enticing presence. 

His tease made the Trickster arch an eyebrow and smile. Such heavy-handed flirtation went past brash, straight into endearing. Meanwhile, Buckingham looked blankly from one to the other, unable to comprehend that, of all the shocking mysteries this situation had spread before them, of all the inexplicable things that demanded an urgent clarification, the one his lover picked to elucidate was that of his name. And then, that Musketeer flirting with his lover before his very eyes, that rather took the biscuit. The Duke squared his shoulders and his jaw, and adopted an arrogant, - pompous, even - air. 

“Impossible,” he declared. “I have known Charles for years. There is no way on heaven or earth that he would have been able to hide such a monstrous secret from me all this time!”

“Upon my faith, this man belongs to the Cardinal,” insisted Tony. “He stole from our friend that which the Queen had intended for you, as Steve was on his way to meet you.”

The Duke turned to the Trickster.

“Charles, what is the meaning of all this? Why will you not speak up for yourself? Tell the truth to these gentlemen. No harm will come to you, I swear.”

“Oh, Georges, for heaven’s sake…” sighed the Trickster, rubbing his eyes as if suddenly struck by a terrible headache, his tone one of despair. He turned to the Musketeers. “Do you gentlemen see what I have had to put up with?”

The king’s men looked to one another with deep confusion. They had expected relentless and cunning protestations of innocence on the part of the Trickster, and they had readied themselves for a cutthroat verbal contest of wits with a formidable foe, whom they were sure would certainly be putting on a ferocious defense of his character and identity. What, indeed, was this new trick? 

As he pinched the bridge of his nose, the Trickster addressed the Duke again, with a tone of extreme exhaustion.

“Didn’t it ever occur to you to ponder how it was possible that the Cardinal was aware of each and every one of your meetings with the queen, which you had only confided to that journal bound in red leather you keep in the secret drawer of the dresser in the antechamber at York House? And what about that top-secret visit to the Louvre in October, which ended up in much running about when you walked straight into the trap set up by the Cardinal’s men? How else would those thugs have known to look for a man in a Musketeer’s livery, if not because _someone_ must have heard you specify to your old valet that such a livery should be fetched for you and packed, in preparation for your impending crossing of the Channel?”

The countenance of the duke showed now a deadly pallor, his eyes seemed about to pop out of their orbits, and his mouth refused to be shut. 

“I-I don’t believe it…”

For an answer, the Trickster simply let out a heavy sigh.

“But you-you love me!” cried the duke all of a sudden. “You swore you loved me! I know you do! I know true passion and real sentiment when I see them! I saw it in your eyes when you came to me as an innocent young thing and…”

The Trickster scoffed in mockery, full of contempt for the Duke’s delusions, and as a result, indignation swelled in Buckingham’s chest. He narrowed his eyes and loomed above the Trickster to challenge him with these words,

“Was it a lie, then, when you sweetly promised your heart to me, and offered me your purity as a pledge of love and…”

The Trickster interrupted the Duke’s refutation with a snort.

“How many virgins do you know who swallow, Georges?” he retorted savagely.

Among the to-ing and fro-ing of the quarrelling lovers, the Musketeers felt as trespassers, unwilling and deeply uncomfortable witnesses to matters of the utmost privacy. They all wished the extremely embarrassing rapport to be over. 

“We don’t have time for this, Milord! Our lady is in great distress!” stepped in Steve. He turned to the Trickster. “The parcel you stole from me, where is it?”

“Parcel? What?” asked Buckingham.

“The parcel, George,” said the Trickster, still speaking with exasperation. “The stack of love letters from your very own hand, signed with your very own name, detailing no less than three intimate interviews between you and Anne of Bretagne.” And to Steve, “It’s right next to that jewellery box that _should_ be in that trunk, a case covered in black velvet, embossed with the Fleur de Lys entwined with Anne’s arms in gold, containing twelve precious diamond buttons.”

The Duke’s usually sanguine complexion was suddenly drained of its colour. He threw himself across the room in urgent strides to open the trunk in the corner and rummage inside with increasing agitation. Soon, garments and items of costly material and exquisite manufacture were flying over his shoulder like worthless rags. Once the trunk had been revealed to contain no case covered in black velvet, the Duke rushed to his several leather satchels. Those too ended up held upside down and empty, having yielded their contents, all but that which the Duke sought for so desperately.

Satisfied - or rather, immensely, murderously dissatisfied - that what he looked for would not be found where he was seeking it, the Duke of Buckingham stood as tall as he was, and turned, with jaundiced eyes due to his choler, to the man still naked on the bed. The Trickster met that frightful stare without an ounce of fear, but smugness and triumph instead, having fooled the great man once again. But this time, victory tasted sweeter than ever to the Trickster, for his victim knew he had been had. For _years_ he had been had, and now the Duke was finally faced with the full heft and weight of it. The pleasure the Trickster was obviously deriving from the situation was nigh indecent.

“Those parcels, where are they?” inquired Buckingham, cutting.

“You shall never find them,” said the Trickster, quite sweetly. 

“Damn you!” cursed the Englishman in his native tongue, shaking his fist in the air.

Seeing as this exchange was again being derailed by strong emotion, level-headed Steve thought it wise to intervene.

“Perhaps he hid them away? Or relayed them to an agent for concealment? Has he been at any time out of your sight, Milord?”

“Indeed not!” claimed the duke.

The Trickster snorted again, mocking Villiers’ misplaced assurance. All turned to him for an explanation, while the Duke’s nostrils flared with silent fury at the fresh humiliation he foresaw coming from his lover’s mouth.

“He sleeps like the dead after…” The Trickster smirked wickedly, and added, “ _Petite morte_ indeed.”

Deep crimson blossomed on the Duke’s cheeks.

“What have you done with them then?” insisted Steve. “The parcels, where are they?”

“Come come, there’s no sport in telling, is there?” said the Trickster.

“I shall wring the truth out of him!” Buckingham crossed the chamber in three bounds, darting towards the bed, his violent intentions patent in the fire in his eyes. But Steve and Thor barred his way as so many unshakeable brick walls. Tony, meanwhile, closed in on the Duke, his voice and gesture restrained and appeasing.

“It won’t be necessary, Milord.” He turned to the Trickster. “We are all reasonable men, here, are we not? Nobody has any wishes to come to that. The things you stole, Trickster, are they already in the Cardinal’s hands, or on their way to meet them?”

The Trickster smiled, a deceptively angelic quality to his grin.

“Shall I say yes? Or shall I say no? Would you believe one single word from my lips?”

“No!” exclaimed Buckingham, although nobody had been speaking to him.

“I would,” declared Steve, an earnest air in his carriage. “If you explain yourself, and your explanation makes sense, I shall believe it. But an explanation will have to come, because I truly do not understand what’s happening. You meant to steal the parcel from me, and now you have Buckingham’s too. You have what you came here for. And so, your mission is complete. Why have you lingered here thus, when you must have known that every hour you delayed brought your pursuers closer to you?”

“It’s quite a puzzle, isn’t it?” said the Trickster, with a charming smile.

“Trickster…” warned Tony. Time was running out.

“Yes, you are right,” granted the Trickster, “an explanation will have to be forthcoming, and quite an exhaustive one at that, since you gentlemen are clearly miles behind. “ The Trickster turned on his back and stretched his spine and arms, cat-like. Then he sat up and reclined against the headboard, adopting a slightly more businesslike air. By now the sheets were covering so little, however, business was fighting an uphill battle to stay on any of the presents' mind. “Yes, I already have in my possession what I was sent here to retrieve on behalf of my patron. No, those items are not yet in His Eminence's hands. Let’s just say that, when I had them in my power, and I realised that their considerable value far exceeded what Richelieu had offered to give me for them, I began to ponder how much other interested parties might be willing to pay for, namely, a stack of love letters, rather clumsy and pedestrian of expression, but full of unmistakable, burning passion, over-pouring with extremely juicy details and insinuations of the most scandalous variety, all clearly worded, and duly signed; _and_ also for a set of twelve diamond buttons, pertaining to the crown of France, which by mysterious, perplexing means, may yet find their way to England, to the very own private house of the Duke of Buckingham himself, no less! A set of diamonds which, by the way, the king expects his wife to wear at a ball on Sunday, as per Cardinal Richelieu’s malicious suggestion, and which Louis would be rather disappointed if they were not to appear, especially when rumours start to become rife in the city that they have been spotted in the court of King James, adorning the costume of the current official mistress of Georges Villiers, first lord of the Admiralty.”

The faces of all present had fallen, just as colour had left their cheeks. The Musketeers all turned to each other to ensure they had heard what they had heard. This was by far a lot worse than any of them had envisaged.

“I know, I know” said the Trickster, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know what you gentlemen are thinking. How can anyone be so colossally stupid, indeed. To begin with, I thought it would make my job all the more easy, but Holy Mary, Mother of God, it’s not easy at all to pretend to be less intelligent than this! To pretend one has not caught on with even the most insignificant details! To pretend one cannot see, or hear, or understand, when such appalling, pathetic attempts are made at concealing them! God, but I _am_ exhausted. Every time I had to see this harebrained ass, I needed one month of rest! I had to beg to the Cardinal for something with a bit more meat to it, lest my brain would rot from lack of use. I’d ask him to put me on the case of the misplaced blanket of the royal nursery, _anything_ to alleviate the terrible boredom of being burdened with following the idiotic intrigues of Buckingham and the Queen! All those years honing my skills, learning to conceal myself in half an inch of shadow, learning to navigate the most devilishly embroiled intrigues, wasted! _I need my best man on the case_ , His Eminence would say. What they need, Your Eminence, is a goddamn wet nurse. Keeping a suckling infant from finding their thumb would pose more difficulty than tricking Buckingham!”

“What do you want?” said Steve, cutting off the Trickster’s tirade, since it appeared he had quite a few years’ worth of frustration to vent, and time was at a premium. And indeed, his interruption brought the Trickster back to the point - his gaze intense, quite impossible to bear when it was entirely focused with all its sharpness on one single individual.

“I want fifty-thousand gold _Louises_ , and a letter of pardon from the King,” he declared. “I also want the title of a certain property in the south called Asgard, in perpetuity, for me and my heirs.”

His demands caused dismay all around.

“You are mad,” gasped Tony.

“Possibly,” replied the Trickster, with a broad grin, his stare just as fierce.

“The King will never agree to that,” said Tony. “He may be persuaded to spare your life, perhaps, although most assuredly only if you agree to march into exile… He fears your very presence on French soil too much.”

“Does he perchance fear international scandal, lasting humiliation, and war with England just as much?” replied the Trickster, shrugging off Tony’s words.

“If you could at least hand us the diamonds, as a token of goodwill,” bargained Tony. “Even if we believed that the King can be persuaded to agree to those terms, we would never make it to Paris with your demands and back here with his concessions, and return to the city again with your agreement, and the queen’s diamonds, in time for Sunday.”

“That is hardly my problem,” said the Trickster, examining his nails with as much concern as Pilate used to wash his hands. “The honour of the queen is in danger. Ride like the wind.”

“You dog!” roared Buckingham, throwing himself against the Trickster. “I’ll tear you to shreds!”

Thor was there to block the path. Dryly, he said,

“He shall be dealt with, Milord, but not by your hand.”

Steve spoke again, attempting to conciliate the Trickster’s demands with the necessities of their desperate situation.

“What if we should meet halfway? You give us the diamonds, and we shall advance you the money.”

“First of all,” said the Trickster, “what use is the money without the pardon? Might as well pave my grave with gold for all the profit it shall make me. Second of all… _You_ are going to give me the money? Darling Steve, do any of your friends happen to have a goldmine in their breeches? Because I don’t remember any under yours last time I had a rummage down there.”

Steve blushed violently. Buckingham perceived the Musketeer’s fluster. Immediately, his eyes widened, and his complexion darkened with a renewed choleric bout.

“You, sir?” he groaned towards Steve, burning with jealousy.

“Lord Buckingham,” said Steve, remaining calm and focused, even with that most inopportune flush on his cheeks, “you are the richest man in England. For the sake of the safety of your kingdom and ours, would you be willing to advance a sum that would satisfy this man?”

“I shall tell you what I am willing to do for this man,” hissed Buckingham between his teeth. “I am willing to stick his head on a pole and plant it in front of the doors of Paris, while I take his body back home, lock it in a cage, and hang it from the Tower, where I shall sit day and night to rejoice in the spectacle of the crows picking at his flesh. That’s what is in my mood to do for this man!”

“But, Milord…” entreated Steve.

“Not a copper,” sentenced the Duke.

“Your Excellency!” insisted Steve, who could not comprehend such short-sighted stubbornness. “He has us in his hands! He has the Queen’s very honour in his hands, and the fate of two kingdoms! If we don’t obtain those buttons, we are talking war between our countries! _War_ , don’t you understand?”

“Should Anne’s honour suffer for my own, I know how to make it good! If I cannot see my lady as a suitor, I shall see her as a conqueror!” declared the Duke.

All present rolled their eyes in despair, and silently beseeched the heavens. 

“The diamonds at least, monsieur,” insisted Steve, this time to the Trickster. “If she doesn’t wear them on Sunday, all will be lost, and they shall become worthless to you. If she can be saved this time, I am sure she will intervene in your name before her husband.”

“If I hand you either of those parcels before my letter of pardon is signed, I forfeit my life. Each of them protects me from one of the sides in this contest.”

“But our hands are tied! You must give us something, a way out!”

“Since I am not the one who has to appear at a ball on Sunday, I shall just while away my time here and await a better offer. The buttons will still be of value on Monday to Cardinal Richelieu,” proclaimed the Trickster, in a tone that brokered no argument. “And now, I would have my clothes back, if you messieurs have looked your fill?”

“Not even close,” said Tony quickly.

The Trickster granted him a grin, part coyness and part amusement. Steve for his part gathered the Trickster’s clothes from where they were strewn on the floor, scattered all over by Buckingham’s frantic search, and handed them to the young man on the bed. The Trickster kicked off the sheets, and several pairs of eyes were averted, and even one back was turned. The Trickster faced Tony as he put on chemise and breeches, delighting in the transported expression on the Musketeer’s face.

Indeed, Tony had become so distracted by the spectacle, he had not heard Thor call him up to three times. Steve was forced to snatch Tony’s arm and drag him the corner where an improvised conference between the Musketeers and Lord Buckingham was about to take place, in hushed tones, while the Trickster behind their backs finished recovering a modicum of decency (although even a glimpse of his clavicles, only partly covered by the unlaced collar of his chemise, was more enticing than a full look at many others’ bare naked bodies).

“Messieurs, our situation is desperate. What shall we do?”

“I say the rack will loosen his tongue,” said Buckingham, eager to wash away in the Trickster’s blood the humiliations he had suffered by his hand.

Steve gasped audibly, horrified.

“This is not England, monsieur,” he declared, indignant. “We are not savages here! Perhaps is the custom of your land, but us Frenchmen don’t just put people to torment willy-nilly, certainly not before every other alternative has been tried and exhausted first!”

Thor and Tony shared a quick look, but decided there was no time to disabuse Steve of such idealistic notions.

“We search the place, then, top to bottom,” said Thor. “We make sure he hasn’t concealed the loot in this _hôtel_ , and once we are satisfied that he hasn’t, we move him someplace else.”

“Move him, why?” asked Buckingham.

Thor lowered his voice to a barely audible rumour, intended for Buckingham’s ears only.

“Men of the Cardinal are on their way right now, Rochefort and his ruffians. You, sir, must leave immediately, before they arrive.”

“I can hardly depart now and leave the matter as it stands, unresolved!” protested the Duke, much too loudly. “There’s too much at stake!”

“Your Excellence, please, lower your voice!” admonished Thor, in a whisper. “We do not know that the Trickster is aware of Rochefort coming! It might yet save us all if he doesn’t find out, and either by bargaining or by pressure we can succeed in eroding his determination. If he does find out, it might cement his resolve to wait and try to weather the storm until they arrive!” 

Whatever retort the Duke may have had at being spoken to in this manner, Thor quashed it before he could begin to formulate it, with renewed advice.

“Milord, the blood of the Duke of Buckingham on the hands of a Frenchman would be an even better reason for war than any intimate entanglement Richelieu would ever be able to dangle over the King's head. We would fight to preserve your person until our very last breath, if it came to that, but only Fortune knows what the outcome would be, should a squabble break out. There is too much at stake. Rochefort cannot find you here. You must leave at once.”

“Gentlemen, I do not wish to offend you, but I do not know that you are capable of handling such a delicate matter without my aid.”

“There is no alternative,” insisted Thor. “The risk is too great. The queen trusts us. Trust your lady in turn. Depart while you still can.”

The duke seemed to be meditating his options.

“I don’t fear a war,” he declared, “for I am persuaded that my country would prevail. But indeed, Anne loves peace…”

“She begs you through our mouths, Milord,” entreated Tony. “Get yourself to safety before it’s too late.”

“You are right. My loss would be a devastating blow for England, and for James. There may be war with France yet, since the Cardinal is a man of great resources and enormous determination. My King and my country need me alive, safe, and free. I shall depart.”

“She shall hear of your courageous sacrifice,” said Tony. He buttered his tone so skilfully that the duke completely missed the sarcasm in his words.

“Farewell, then.” 

Buckingham turned to the Trickster now, with hatred burning in the narrow slits that were his eyes. The Trickster granted him one of his enchanting smiles, with a loaded squint of his own. There was much being said without one word.

The Duke turned to the Musketeers one last time. Without regard for the Trickster overhearing him, Buckingham said,

“Gentlemen, I must warn you. Beware of that man. He’s had me utterly confounded for years, and I am not as great a fool as he would have you believe. If he is indeed who you say he is, do not let any of you be alone with him in the same room. He is a snake-charmer, a succubus. There is witchery in his words, and poison on his lips. He’ll rob you of your free will, of your very own soul, and enslave them to his. If he should ever escape, may God have mercy upon all our souls. Exercise extreme caution. Never turn your back on him. You have been warned.”

The Trickster had listened to Villiers’ parting council with unwavering attention and a smug grin. When the duke was done, the Trickster puckered his lips and blew him a kiss. Buckingham returned a glare of hatred, his humiliation and rage plain for all to see. He slammed the door behind his back as he left.

Steve approached the Trickster with a length of rope.

“Turn around,” he commanded.

The Trickster dipped his eyes low to examine the rope.

“So commanding,” he purred, with a sultry look from beneath his long dark lashes. “My my, what a couple days on the road have done to you,” 

Steve clenched his jaw, steeling himself against a taunt that both irritated him with its patronising lilt and left him in shambles, and with a forceful hand he spun the Trickster around so that his back was turned, and his wrists held behind his back. He bound them together tightly. The Trickster made a hum when the Musketeer was clenching the knot, which made Steve congratulate himself that his own back was to the room as well, and nobody could see the discomfiture on his face. He had intended to secure the Trickster’s binds to the bed, but now he feared what the Trickster would make of that, the remarks he would taunt him with, and the embarrassingly obvious effect it would have on him, so instead he led him to a chair, and with a shove, forced him to sit down.

“Don’t move,” he grumbled low. “And don’t speak.”

“My lips are sealed,” said the Trickster, and he licked them, still staring from under lowered lids. Steve averted his eyes and walked away, lest the wicked, mischievous devil should hear the pounding beat of his agitated heart.

Immediately, the Musketeers spread out to search the room. They were all too aware of the Trickster’s eyes on them as he observed,elbow reclined on the arm of his seat and his legs crossed, as if instead of being tied to a chair and facing his impending execution, he was waiting to be served a refreshment at an elegant salon. He seemed very little interested in their search. Steve wondered whether the Trickster’s disinterest was a clear sign that they were wasting their time searching this room, or whether it was a ruse of the Trickster to make them believe that they wasted their time so that they would stop searching. Or perhaps the Trickster predicted that they would suspect as much, and he had hidden the diamonds under their very noses? Or perhaps…? Oh, this devilishly tricky situation and its double-dealing actors! Their manner of thinking was beginning to infect his simple-minded self! Steve shook his head to cut that bewildering chain of thought, suspicion leading to tentative deduction, leading to interrogation, ending in utter confusion. He tried instead to apply his concentration to the task at hand - namely, to leave no stone unturned in that room. 

Thor, for his own part, was already doing just that, and making a very thorough job of it. With a dagger, he was trying to lift the wooden boards on the floor, to check for possible hiding spaces underneath. 

“I think you’ve missed a board,” said the Trickster to Thor.

“Shut up, Loki,” grumbled the Musketeer.

“Oh, so you _can_ see me and hear me,” said the Trickster, sarcastic. “I wondered whether you were still pretending I was a ghost.”

Thor did not reply to that, although he was clenching his jaw as if he was biting back a reply. Steve tried to catch his friend’s eye, and thus perhaps attempt to discern whatever intentions his friend may have regarding the shocking development concerning the Trickster's identity, but Thor only looked away and turned his concentration back to the boards. So many questions, so little time. Whatever his friend’s thoughts and emotions, he was obviously disinclined to tend to them at the moment. Steve continued with his own search.

Meanwhile, the Trickster, who didn't take kindly to being ignored, decided to speak again.

“The one on the left is half an inch higher. I would start there,” he taunted.

Thor carried on as if he had not heard a thing.

“Are you really not going to so much as talk to me, or even look at me?” insisted the Trickster. "After fifteen years?"

Thor continued to play deaf and dumb. Tony was now looking from one to the other, with an inquisitive expression.

“You could at least acknowledge my presence, since it’s your fault after all that I find myself in this situation.”

“ _My_ fault?!” roared Thor, finally facing the Trickster this time, and pale with outrage.

“Who abandoned me to rot in that tower?" roared the Trickster in turn, his arms bulging as he struggled against his bindings. "Who deserted me to be hauled away to my doom? Who was happy to take everything that belonged to me, and placed me on the path to become what I’ve become?”

“You know damn well who!” countered Thor.

“What is going on here?” enquired Tony, caught in the crossfire, and quite baffled. Without expecting an answer, and with the petulant air of a spoilt child protesting an injustice, he whined, “Is there anybody in this kingdom who hasn't crossed paths with this man before but _me_?”

Tony’s outburst gave Thor pause, and he was able to regain possession of his temper. 

“I’ll go check downstairs,” he announced, sourly. “I’ll explain the situation to Clint and Bruce.” 

He left, with the Trickster’s eyes following after. He seemed about to say something.

“Trickster, please, don’t make this worse,” beseeched Steve.

“Define worse,” said he. His tone was still playful, but there was a new hardness in his stare. “Aren’t your King’s orders that I must be handed over to the bailiffs within the hour, to be judged, sentenced, beheaded, and burned?”

“Oh, you are aware of that?”

“Is there anyone on France who isn’t?” retorted the Trickster.

“In that case, how do you expect the King will forgo these orders and grant you a pardon, titles and fortune instead?” asked Steve.

“Because the honour of his Queen and peace in the realm are at stake?”

“But Trickster, don’t you see that, to persuade the king of the direness of a situation that warrants such extraordinary measures, he must first be made aware of the affair of Buckingham and the Queen, and that in that case, all is lost already? Why would any of the parties see the need to give you anything once the cat is out of the bag? But if you hand us the diamonds, even if you retain the letters, the Queen, I’m sure, can be prevailed upon to…”

“Oh no, no no no no, my darling boy! That is not how you play this game!” interrupted the Trickster. “It’s not husband against wife, or Louis against Georges! It’s not even Louis against James! It’s all ye men of peace against my good patron Cardinal Richelieu, Prime Minister and dedicated warmonger, who stands to gain untold wealth and influence should France see another front open while the war is still raging against Spain, this time with our uncomfortable neighbour beyond the strait! It’s not like the King does not know of the Queen’s dalliances, so it’s not that his trust in his wife is at stake. Richelieu does not count on the queen’s fear of being discovered and having to face marital discord for this. He doesn’t need it. What he is counting on is on forcing Louis’ hand by exposing the queen to ruin and scandal before the whole court. If the Queen should turn up on Sunday without those diamond buttons, while swathes of copies of Buckingham’s letters start appearing all over the city streets, humiliation for Louis will be so severe that he will be forced to declare war on England to save face. And even if Louis somehow managed to avoid such critical measures, the news of James’ favourite’s latest shenanigans would force the English king to declare war on France in turn. But,” and here the Trickster’s tone lost its urgent quality, and acquired instead a mellow, seductive one, “if this humble servant here should find a safe haven on French soil, enough wealth to last him the rest of his life, and some peace of mind in the shape of a letter of full pardon, then the buttons would magically appear on Queen Anne’s gown this weekend, and there would be no scandal. And should a particular stack of letters, whose existence has been rumoured but never ascertained, never see the light of day, but burn to ashes in this very brazier over there, then it would be possible to settle whatever pending affairs between husband and wife, away from prying eyes and ears, in the privacy of their bedchamber, where these things should be discussed. And with time and ease, since the peace with England would have remained in place. His Eminence Cardinal Richelieu would be immensely displeased, given that this time he can almost taste the war he craves — the situation is that critical for your party —, but this loyal servant of France here, at least, would not give a toss about that anymore. Victory all around.”

“But this plan would only work in a world that acted following the council of generosity and good sense,” argued Steve, with a disenchanted heaviness in his voice. “You of all men must know how little of these two can be found, especially among the powerful, and even less so in this godforsaken land.”

The Trickster smiled, but this time there was no mockery, no amusement, and no contemptuous distance in his words.

“You’ve grown up in these last few days,” he said, softly. “I am sorry.”

Steve bristled at such show of tenderness. He remembered that particular voice well, and that tone, and he had loved them when he believed them truthful and honest in their concern, and pertaining to Milady. Now he mistrusted them and he smarted from them. He could not bear right now any further interactions with the sly, duplicitous manipulations of the Trickster, so he headed out of the room.

“There’s nothing here, Tony. Let’s get out and search the rest of the place.”

“I think perhaps I should stay behind and keep a close eye on him, to make sure he does not escape…” said Tony.

“He shall not be going anywhere,” declared Steve. He towed his friend outside, fighting his half-hearted resistance (since for all his readiness to brush shoulders with temptation, Tony was not a fool, and knew better than to play too carelessly with fire, especially if that fire was demonstrably stoked straight down in Hell), and closed the door. “Go to our comrades, and ask them where they have most need of you.”

“And you?”

“I shall man this door. Nobody comes in or out.”

“Are you sure about that, my friend?” asked Tony, with a skeptical note in his voice. Did he perhaps suspect Steve had other designs?

And _was_ Steve sure? Did he trust himself? Hiding his own uncertainty, he nodded decisively.

“Go,” said Steve.

Tony was not utterly wrong in harboring a measure of suspicion regarding Steve’s true intentions as he asked to be left behind. Although he was perfectly aware that the situation was of the utmost gravity, and that time was passing very rapidly, Steve had indeed more concerns on his mind than the affairs of France, and he was in much need of a pause to breathe and gather his thoughts. He had much to ponder. That crucial matter that had not been talked about; they could not possibly leave it unresolved for long. It was the matter of the name that had been spoken as soon as they had stepped into that room; the matter of who the Trickster really was, and _what_ he was, to their friend Thor.


	6. A private interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a unilateral decision. He doesn't get what he wanted, but he gets what he needed.

 

 

 

Before the locked door of the bedchamber which had now become the Trickster’s prison, Steve endeavoured to apprise himself of the situation. It was of the utmost gravity of course, and precious time was trickling away, lost in search of the stolen parcels, in what Steve feared was a pointless exercise. Somehow, he could not picture the Trickster busying himself in such a banal pursuit as concealing his loot under a loose slab. No, alas, wherever it was, Steve was willing to bet that it would not be so easy. 

He was refraining an impulse to interpellate Thor regarding the Trickster. He wished for a confirmation of the overwhelming suspicion aroused in him. Loki, he had called him. Loki, and with such vibrancy, with such intimacy, almost as if it was a secret name between the two of them, an endearment born between the sheets. Steve had seen this particular sentiment in his friend but once, when he was spinning the tale of his long lost brother. Was it him, then? The Trickster, Thor’s beloved? What a world! What a coincidence! It was almost dizzying. 

But precisely because the coincidence was so staggering, Steve counselled himself to be wary. Was it a coincidence at all? The many puzzling twists and turns in the Trickster’s behaviour throughout last week, which had previously seemed nonsensical, did they become clarified when observed under this new light? Or even before that! If the Cardinal had known so much about Steve for such a long time, whose company he kept, whom in Paris he called friends and comrades, then could the Trickster not have known that Steve was indeed connected by friendship and common interest to Thor? Where these facts of any consequence in the intrigue that occupied them? Were they a further danger to take into account? Was that even the reason wherefore Steve had been chosen in this mission? How much further and deeper did the ramifications of this extraordinary discovery go?

Not for the first time that evening, Steve cursed his simple, direct manner of reasoning, still too much in keeping with the ways of the countryside from whence he came, where black was black and white was white, and everybody knew everything about their neighbours, their characters, their pasts, their family trees, and so could easily surmise alliances and intentions, sincerity or lack thereof, and led to plainer, much clumsier deceits. Politics in Paris, by contrast, were a cesspool of enigmas and mysteries, populated by people of finer wits and understanding far more sophisticated than his. He felt entirely surpassed by intelligences much subtler and cunning, and confused by motivations and objectives so convoluted and conceited, he could not see his way through the maze. He hesitated at every step, aware that powerful men could see and learn so much from all his movements, secrets he didn’t even realise he was keeping, little matters which he had never suspected were worth knowing to anyone but him.  

If the Trickster had set them a trap, they had fallen into it. Was it revenge against Thor he was after? Oh, it didn’t make much sense to Steve, orchestrating such a devilishly complex stratagem to obtain something that’s cheaply peddled on any corner of Paris, but what the hell did he know what made sense to men like those they were dealing with. What were they all doing here? What did the Trickster really want?

Steve guessed the Musketeers planned on using their combined intelligences and experience to pry it away from him, and just as well, Steve was convinced that the Trickster would play them all like a deck of cards. No, cunning would not do it, for the Trickster far outdid them all on that account, or strategy, or deviousness, and Steve had his doubts that the rack would accomplish much more. 

But if his dealings with Milady had taught him anything, it was that there was but one approach that disarmed her and often left her bereft of words: Steve’s naivete, his straightforwardness, his utter lack of guile. 

He heard the warnings of the Duke of Buckingham in his head, he remembered the accounts of the Trickster’s miraculous, often bloody escapes. He told himself, what do you have to lose? With his characteristic all-or-nothing approach to difficult situations, he told himself, he may try to kill you and flee, but in any case, as things stand at present, you’re as good as dead. But if only he could go to the grave with some accursed explanations! Then perhaps his ghost might have a chance to rest in peace.

He unlocked the door and stepped in.

 

The Trickster half-turned his head to look.

“Oh, it is you,” and he carried on with what he was doing. Which was standing behind the bed, his back to the door, very much unfettered by the restrains Steve had left him in but a few moments ago, and in just his skin. Only partially screened by the tall bed, he was cleaning his body with a towel and water from a basin on the window sill.

“How…?” began Steve, astonished. 

The Trickster half-turned again to address him a mischievous smirk over his shoulder, and winked. 

Steve abandoned his question. Oh, it was pointless to ask how had he set himself free. Most certainly, the Trickster had escaped from far more challenging bindings than those. Besides, Steve had better try and keep focus, which would require of all his wits, since the water must be cold, and the Trickster’s pale skin was pearled with droplets, and rising with goosebumps that begged to be touched. His body was streaked with pink where he had rubbed with the towel. Perhaps his delicate skin wasn’t used to the coarse material. Perhaps he was insisting beyond the purposes of mere cleanliness. Oh you fool, do try to keep on track. Feeling heat blossom on his face, and cursing his own naturally pale complexion which did nothing to conceal it, Steve cleared his throat, and stepped closer to begin his address.

“What have you come to offer me this time, dear, the Duchy of Venice?” said the Trickster, his tone of sarcasm sweetened with genuine amusement. 

“I have nothing left to offer,” said Steve. “I have come to beg.”

The Trickster wrung the towel mindlessly, soaked it again, and turned his attention to a spot that made Steve rush to turn his back, his cheeks burning hot enough to light a kindle. 

“Beg? On whose behalf?” said the Trickster, at all times busy with his ablutions. “Surely you must have come to realise by now that the fates of England and France afflict me as much or as little as that of the great faraway kingdom of Persia. So, certainly, you cannot have come to beg in their stead. As for your Queen, she appeals to my concern much more, truly. And I will be delighted to do her a great and much necessary service, that of teaching her once and for all to stop entertaining the whims of that reckless madman Buckingham. I am of course deeply beholden to his Majesty the king as well, may god and all his angels guard him, and he will always be able to count on me for a reminder of just how far behind he is lagging in his conflict with the Cardinal. He may still be in time to learn to take his Spymaster’s warnings as seriously as he should, and begin to provide De La Furie’s organisation with sufficient funds and resources, for at least a chance of keeping up with His Eminency. So, you see, my heart is not made of stone. I am, first and foremost, France’s devout servant.”

Steve gritted his teeth with anger, vexed by the Trickster’s lightness and cavalier attitude to matters that Steve felt deeply.

“It is not only them who will lose in this,” he argued. “I am not here for anyone but for myself. For my name. This shall destroy me. It is in your power to soften the blow upon my reputation and my career in Paris. I am begging you.”

The Trickster turned to face him for a moment, that maddening half-smile forever on his lips (Steve quickly withdrew his gaze, for not only the Trickster’s smile was in plain view now). Then he put the towel aside, and selected a fresh set of clothes. Steve couldn’t help but remark upon the very simple, barely adorned finish of his undergarments, but then reddened and flustered as the Trickster slipped inside them, and the exquisite manufacture of the delicate linen came to shine in all its glory, for it was so slight and finespun, sight reached right through it. Elegantly oblivious, the Trickster spoke as he continued to dress, a masculine attire this time, of the same sober style but excellent quality as his underthings. With such a lovely frame, frills and and trimmings were superfluous.

“Steve, _mon cher_ , whom is it you believe you are speaking to? A selfish appeal from your lips, how absurd! When you wear your heart as clearly as you wear the nose on your face, and I know full well that you would not doubt to sacrifice your life, your career, let alone your fortune, should you have any, and certainly your good name, for the greater good of the realm!”

“Not so!” protested Steve. “Fortune and career are one thing, life even, but my honour? That is quite another!”

“We speak of different things then. For the honour you truly value is between you and yourself, is it not? Reputation and fame, for which men kill and die, that holds only a very moderate appeal to you, my young man, and, for a cause you deemed worthy, you would be easily prevailed upon to smother your good name and the regard of your peers in dirt, as long as your self-respect remained intact. Don’t object. If you think that it is not so, you will soon learn that you are quite mistaken.”

“Oh, so you can see my soul better than myself, is that it?”

“Apparently.”

Steve made to argue, but the Trickster cut him off, as he carefully laced his chemise.

“In any case, I can’t hardly be persuaded with so little. You fear for your reputation and your career? My dear boy, I am fighting for my life.”

“Your life? Your greed!” argued Steve. “Return that which you have stolen, be rid of it, and be free!”

The Trickster sighed, his patience tried, as he buttoned the fitted black doublet, black brocade with only a touch of embroidered golden filigree on the pointed hem. 

“You really believe it is that easy,” sighed the Trickster, while he artfully tugged and pulled the shirt through the slashes on the sleeves of his doublet, in the latest fashion. He turned his gaze towards him, his weariness patent in the lilt of his eyebrows, in his tired voice. “Go back, my sweet, go back to your little town in the provinces. That childhood friend of yours you were always telling me about, that soldier of fortune now serving in Flanders, find him, call him back. Mayhap now that you have known me, you understand why he had to leave your side so suddenly as you both became men. Before it’s too late for both of you, call him back to your side. Sell everything you’ve got between you, take yourselves away from this place, get some land, or a herd of sheep, or learn a trade, and have a happy life together, away from the intrigues of the powerful and the mighty. You do not belong here, _mon cher_. You are worth much more than this. It is not even your life I am afraid for, but that you should succeed in Paris and live on for many years, for that will mean that the Steve I knew would have been destroyed, his place taken by a man inferior to him in all ways except in cunning, deviousness, and flattery. I am begging you, if it’s the last thing I do. Flee while you still can. Paris will devour you, as it has consumed me.”

Steve looked on, his heart in a knot. He was moved by a great emotion.

“It is Milady I am hearing now, in those words, in this voice, in the very exhaustion and forsakenness of your plea. Milady who spoke kindly to me about the solace, the company, and the quiet joy my presence used to bring her.”

The Trickster turned his face away, pretending he needed the mirror to arrange the turned lace collar over the short velvet cape which now topped his ensemble. But in the mirror on the wall, Steve saw that his eyes were low and lost in some faraway place. 

“Provincial and unlearned in the ways of the capital as you were, Milady had very little need to lie to you. She concealed a few critical details, that is all.”

“Otherwise, did she speak your heart?” said Steve, his heart fluttering with hopefulness.

“As far as I have been known to possess one.” 

The Trickster did consult the mirror to ensure the very fashionable lovelock fell as it should over his left shoulder. He frowned disapprovingly at the state of the black mane of hair, which was still tousled from his earlier activities. He produced a golden brush from a satchel, and proceeded to comb his curls. Steve had witnessed the whole ceremony with fascination, aware of the great privilege he had been granted in being allowed to observe an exercise of such private nature, the Trickster as he put on his mask. It brought a sudden, wonderful realisation to his mind.

“I did wonder all these days,” he said, in a whisper, so as not to disturb the ritual, “why wasn’t I in mourning? Why did I not grieve? The woman I loved and pinned all my hopes of happiness on was gone. Because she never was, is what I told myself. My heart knows now ’twas but a marvellous dream, but is now awake, and while it longs for the sweetness of sleep, the wounds it must overcome are but ghostly traces from which it is only natural that it’s so promptly recovered.

“But I did not believe it, not in truth, for if she were fictitious, my love of her was not. So why wasn’t my heart in shatters? Why could I not bring myself to hate you? Why?”

The Trickster was staring at Steve intensely now through the silvery waters of the mirror.

“I know now, hearing you speak thus,” said Steve, a warm smile flooding his countenance. “I know now. Because she _was_. I did not dream her. She was, and she never really went away. She is here now, this night.”

The Trickster abruptly unmet his gaze, as if he feared that Steve could read in his eyes more than he intended to reveal. He had finished combing his hair; it shone richly, the soft waves falling gracefully over the delicate collar. In the mirror now, the Trickster’s expression had darkened with a frown of regret.

“I used you ill,” he said softly, at length. “Not when you think. I was always going to steal the letters from you, for I needed them. No, I used you ill when I bedded you. It wasn’t necessary. The drug was ready for you in your cup. I took it from you after one sip, remember?”

“And I said keep the wine, for I would much rather taste the sweetness of your lips. And you called me a fool. Do not attempt to romance me with clumsy flourishes, you admonished, it doesn’t suit you.”

The Trickster grinned vaguely.

“And you laughed,” he said, “such was the success of my scolding.”

“I was drunk on the nearness of you. And then you proved just how right I was, with a kiss so sweet and full of promise like I had never known before, or maybe ever again.” continued Steve, his whole visage illuminated with the happy memory of that night, 

“I wanted you to stop talking,” grumbled the Trickster, not without fondness.

Steve chuckled. The Trickster turned towards the bed, and now Steve could see his face. Perhaps it was only his eagerness to see it there, but Steve could swear there was genuine contrition in the Trickster’s face, a melancholy not bereft of regret. It was also a rare thing, to observe the Cardinal’s greatest spy busy in such a menial task as folding away the garments strewn on the bed, and depositing them in an open trunk in the corner.

“You made my job harder than it had to be, with that way of yours,” said the Trickster, irksomeness in his voice, as if he blamed Steve for his charm and devotion. “That you’d be singed in this affair, that could not be helped. But only your career and your reputation needed be affected. Your heart… I should have let you drink, and sleep, and been gone. A clean cut. In the morning, you would have despised me unequivocally, without hesitation, without the memory of promises made in the closest intimacy, of pleasure given and received, to soften your rage and your spite. It would have been kinder to you.” The Trickster smiled sadly to nothing or no-one. “But I was weak. I wanted something just for me. Not for the Cardinal, not for France, not for anyone else but me. I wanted your warmth, your tenderness, the solace and peace I knew only in your company, you who wanted me without guile or duplicity, you who wanted nothing from me but myself. Or the dream she was, anyway. But since I had let her speak my mind so often and so freely with you, it did not feel as if I was enjoying you through her mask.”

“Was that why you revealed your sex to me?” enquired Steve expectantly, eager to discern at least that part of the enigma. He offered, with boyish presumption, “That we could be together for once without masks or pretences?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the Trickster, with a sad little smile. “By then I had already hatched one last, desperate plan.”

“What plan?”

“In any case, I thank you for that night,” said the Trickster, ignoring Steve’s question. “I shall tell myself that it was my last night on earth. That I never woke up, and that what followed is as insubstantial and of as little consequence as a dream. That dreams are but shadows, and that I am too old to be afraid of the dark. And I shall die more happily for it.”

“Die?”

The Trickster plunged into a long silence, deeply subsumed in arduous contemplation. He emerged from it with a new air of determination.

“Very well, then,” he said, as if in response to an entreaty that had not been raised. Perhaps in his own head, it had. He stared at Steve, for what felt like the first time in a long while. Steve straightened under it, for it blazed with piercing resolution. “I am willing to swallow my pride,” announced the Trickster. “Please, do me a kindness, and call Thor.”

Steve felt a stab of jealousy.

“I am persuaded that he doesn’t wish to speak to you,” he said, rigidly.

“I am sure of that. Tell him that it’s the last wish of a condemned man to settle his affairs before it’s too late. That if he has any pending issues of his own, this shall be his last chance to gain his peace.”

“Why do you speak of death so much?”

With a neutral intonation, light and untroubled, the Trickster said,

“Because one way or another, I shall be dead this time tomorrow. Or the morning after, at the latest.”

“Why?” gasped Steve, horrified.

The Trickster smiled weakly once more, and sat down heavily on the bed.

“I am exhausted, _mon cher_ ,” he said, softly. “And it will still be long hours before I can rest. Please, it is me now begging. Call him.”

 

 

 

 

 


	7. The brothers reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is asked to attend a most uncomfortable family reunion.

 

 

Steve found him in the cellars. Thor wasn’t busy searching - he was leaning against a barrel, his expression faraway, and his brow furrowed with his brooding. When Thor heard him at the door, he straightened up and half turned away, to compose his countenance and blank out any soft emotion behind a mask of steely resolve. He regarded Steve for a moment almost with reproach, resenting having been seen in such state. It all spoke eloquently for Steve, furnishing him with an answer to the question he had not yet formulated.

“So, it truly is him. Your brother,” he said.

“ _That_ is not my brother,” snapped Thor, through gritted teeth.

There was such vicious contempt in his voice, Steve judged it pointless to try and argue his point. 

“How long have you known?” he enquired instead.

“I did not know,” replied Thor, his voice dark, his words slow to come. “I suspected. I hoped. I feared. Your description of Milady. It was uncanny. But how could I know for sure, until I laid eyes on him.”

“I see.”

For the space of a few breaths, both men stood quiet, and studied each other. They rose that morning as the best of friends, and now they found themselves rivals in a conflict they had not sought for, but had been thrust upon them. Their friendship was not so old that they did not harbour some doubt as to what the other might do now. 

At length, when the tension between them was almost palpable in the air, Thor spoke to dispel it.

“I am sorry that you have been his victim,” he said solemnly, and with what to Steve seemed as unbearable condescension. 

“That is not all that I have been,” countered Steve, defiant. 

To that, Thor returned a sharp look. Undaunted, Steve held it. He was willing to concede that, in their rivalry, Thor had the superior claim, since it was compounded by seniority and even by blood, but he would not be relegated one inch further away from the Trickster’s heart than he had to be, even if it cost him - he was young and proud and very much enamoured, determined to defend with childish stubbornness every inch of territory he had fairly conquered, friendship be damned.

“Perhaps,” granted Thor at length, not so young, not so stubborn, less inclined to throw away a friendship over a moot point. “It matters little now.”

And although Steve felt the urge to challenge him in that too, he did not, because Thor was right.

“He has asked for you,” he said instead.

“I am sure he has,” said Thor between his teeth, his countenance rigid now with restrained anger.

“He speaks of his imminent death. He says he wishes to settle your affairs.”

Thor scoffed, dismissive.

“And I’m sure he’s most convincing,” he hissed.

“I believe him sincere,” insisted Steve.

“Of course you would,” mocked Thor, not without cruelty. And then a sudden frown furrowed his brow with concern. “Wait, my friend. You have not gone inside that chamber, have you?”

“I have.”

“Alone?” said Thor, now alarmed.

“Indeed. He had freed himself from his bonds. They were my best knots…”

“He is up there, and unbound? Who is at the door?”

“I was.”

Thor’s expression was a mask of dismay.

“MORS TOUS LES ANGES!” he cried, as he rushed upstairs. He threw abuse over his shoulder towards Steve. “You ass! How could you leave him there, unguarded! And why did you go inside that chamber alone? Why did you enter at all? How could you sit there listening to his poison! Do you not know how many far more cautious and far more clever men than you are now in their graves because of much smaller mistakes committed in the Trickster’s presence?”

“He does not mean to escape, I am persuaded of it,” protested Steve, hastening to follow, “And he doesn’t mean any harm to come to me!”

Thor was climbing up the wooden stairs two and three in one stride.

“You think those men suspected otherwise? My stupid friend, you have killed us all!”

They arrived before the door. Steve knocked.

“One moment,” came the Trickster’s voice from inside.

Steve was about to relish making Thor note that he had been right, and the Trickster had indeed not used the opportunity to flee, but his friend at present had one single focus. He burst into the room, door slamming against the wall. 

“Where are you, demon!” he cried.

The Trickster stood in the far corner between the wall and the bed, before the mirror, where he had been pinching his cheeks to give them a fetching blush. Having been caught in such a moment of vanity, he could have saved the pinching, he flustered that much. 

Meanwhile, Thor’s eyes were aglow with hostility. The Trickster seemed to gain composure from his brother’s antagonism. He straightened his back, standing as tall as he was, regal in his black velvet, silk, brocade, and lace, and became more himself.  

“Will you leave us, _mon cher?_ ” he asked Steve, softening his voice, his eyes still trained on Thor.

“Do not,” said Thor, his own voice made harder by that endearment. “One who is so free with other people’s secrets can hardly have a claim to his own. Besides, Steve has my confidence.”

“Not on _all_ matters that concern us, surely,” said the Trickster, with a knowing lilt in his tone.

“Yes, all,” was Thor’s defiant reply.

“Oh?” said the Trickster, regarding Steve, who still stood by the door, with renewed interest, and then back to Thor, enquiring. Thor himself held his stare, and revealed nothing further. “Very well, then. If this is how you want it.”

Steve hesitated, feeling tossed to and fro in a game in which he was but a piece to be played, at which he could lose but could hardly partake in a win, whatever that may be. He was not sure why Thor wanted him there, whether it was just to be contrary and deny the Trickster what he had asked for, or whether Thor was following his own counsel never to be alone in the Trickster’s presence, and thus gain some protection from his lies and his mind games. Just in case the latter was the reason, Steve ought to stay, but he was hardly looking forwards to attending that particular family reunion. He moved two steps away and back from Thor, into a corner subsumed in darkness, hoping that would cloak him from the Trickster’s insightful gaze, and put his presence out of both his and Thor’s minds, that they would hopefully leave him out of this, by god.

“I thought you dead,” said Thor.

“Wished me dead, more like,” said the Trickster.

“Oh no. You would have been no use to me dead,” said Thor, with a malicious, cruel smirk, hatred burning undiluted in his stare.

The Trickster’s charade of lightness fell sour then; his eyes became hard.

“Well, then. You asked for me,” Thor said. “Speak your piece and be done with it."

“I did ask for you. I am waiting. Won’t you beg me as well in the name of the queen? Or your friend’s?” He darted a quick glance at Steve, who looked away.

“Beg you?” scoffed Thor. “You’d have me beg? And humiliate myself further still, when we both know it is in vain? I listen when you speak, fiend. The things you stole insure your life, and that is all that matters to you, is it not? Certainly not France, nor Anne, nor _your cher_  Steve,” he added, with scathing sarcasm. “And what is it indeed that you want with me? Please don’t tell me you believed that you could soften me bringing up the past.”

“Fear not, that I will not try,” spat the Trickster. “I have no illusions in that regard.”

“In that case, since I can’t grant you your pardon, and most assuredly I have no fortune to tempt you, I suppose this is about Asgard, then.”

“You would offer it?” said the Trickster unbelieving, his eyes narrowed in mistrust.

“Offer you what is your right by birth as much as mine?” spat Thor, sarcastic again. “I would have guessed that given would not taste half as sweet to you as taken, preferably pried from my cold, dead hands. What I can’t now understand is why haven’t you obtained it from your patron before this day. It would have been easy enough for the Cardinal. It’s not as if I have powerful friends able to stand up to him, should he want to take it away from me.”

“Indeed. You have quite the talent for frightening away whatever persons of some regard you’ve ever managed to attract.”

“Oh, you know how it is. The rich and mighty don’t take kindly to men who would rather hold onto their honour, keep their heads high, and speak truthfully and freely, rather than bow down for a pat on the head, and only open their mouths but in flattery or to lick their boots,” said Thor, the offence in his words compounded by his glare of contempt.

“Honour and pride, is that what you call what you’re holding onto?” spat the Trickster, with a quick glance up and down his brother’s tired, worn out form, marred by long years of too much drink, not enough rest, very little peace of spirit and mind.

“Why did you not obtain Asgard from Richelieu?” Thor bit back, his ever youthful, comely brother’s assessing, dismissive regard more than his pride could take.

“I couldn’t possibly ask,” said the Trickster quite softly, after a moment of silence.

“And why is that?”

“Why do you think, you fool?” snapped the Trickster, now with impatience. “Had I shown any interest in Asgard, Richelieu would surely have ended up discovering my true identity and my origins, and so, who you were to me. It protected both of us that he didn’t.”

“Protected us from what? Insightful man that he is, he would have instantly known how little love there was between us; that you’d be of no use as leverage on me, as I am not on you.”

“Can’t be too careful in my trade,” gritted the Trickster, still with that vague smile on his lips, that stopped far, far from his eyes, and seem cut and honed as a perfect vehicle for irksome contempt.

“Enough with the pleasantries,” said Thor, abruptly. “Speak then, Trickster, what do you want with me? We do not have all night.”

“No, we do not,” he agreed. “Cease the search. What you seek is not in this _hôtel_. Take me someplace else, and I shall tell you where to find it.”

A frown of suspicion troubled Thor’s brow.

“Oh, so you are changing tunes now? In that case, I suppose you can suggest a spot or two. And I suppose there aren’t any brutes out in the streets waiting to pounce on us the minute you give them the signal.”

The Trickster scoffed.

“Who do you think I am, the prince of darkness, with the powers of hell at my beckon? My resources are finite. I am alone in Calais.”

“Which is of course what you would say.”

“Oh, you ass. Do you think I would be reduced to appealing to you, should I still have anyone else to turn to?” said the Trickster with bitter contempt. But an undertone of some other, more vulnerable sentiment flickered as well in his words. Steve heard it, perhaps Thor did not.

“I do not think at all,” said Thor, poisonous. “I am an ignorant man. All I know is that the Trickster always escapes, and that his trail is usually soaked in blood, often that of those who aid him, whom he rewards with a stab in the back.”

The vicious gleam in Thor’s eye was loaded with rancor and hatred of a kind Steve could only understand in one with very specific, quite closely personal axes to grind. 

“The Trickster is a survivor, and he does what he must,” said his brother. There was no boastfulness in that declaration, only the statement of a fact. “But this time, he’s run out of luck.”

“Oh, don’t sound so downhearted yet,” said Thor, scathing, unmoved by the forsakenness in his brother’s voice and countenance. “Who knows what might yet be in the charts for such a resourceful man as yourself, with so many powerful friends always at the ready.”

“Is it Rochefort you speak of?” said the Trickster, anxious all of a sudden. “Has he arrived?”

Thor maintained a blank expression, endeavouring to reveal nothing.

“Yes, I know he approaches,” said the Trickster, now with exhaustion. He turned a pleading look towards Thor. “You said I was to be moved to a place of safety. Do it now, before it’s too late.”

Thor frowned in suspicion. Quietly, he pondered what was hiding behind this new request.

“If he should arrive, I’ll be out of the Musketeers’ reach!” said the Trickster, impatiently. “The queen’s doom will be sealed. Buy your mistress a few more hours, make haste and take me where Rochefort can’t find me!”

“What is your plan now, Trickster,” Thor rumbled low, mistrust in his narrowed stare.

“It’s just a bid for time. Mine and yours.”

“Time, is it? Awaiting for your rescue?”

“None is coming, not this time,” said the Trickster gravely, tiredly. “But we have much to talk between us yet, brother.”

“Do not call me that, demon,” hissed Thor. “We are not brothers. What I have before my eyes is the corrupt, putrid flesh of the creature that murdered my brother, and then stole his name and his face as disguise, in order to wander this earth committing unspeakable deeds of the utmost villainy.”

“Murdered him, did I?” hissed the Trickster, now angered. “It was but a carcass the demon occupied; he found it vacant. And who did first burn out your brother’s soul?”

Thor squinted in puzzlement. By now they had both forgotten they were not alone in the room.

“What do you speak of, creature?”

“Did you not turn your back on me all those years ago, in the hour of my gravest need?” cried the Trickster. “Did you not allow them to take me away, never once lifting your voice in protestation, or so much as a finger in rebellion? You knew where they were sending me, and you did nothing to stop them!”

“The best bloody school in the realm, among the children of the nobility and the greatest in France! And only for a few years!” roared Thor. “What on earth was so horrible about that, that you couldn’t suffer it for more than two months?”

“Oh, is that what you tell yourself to calm your conscience?” countered the Trickster. “That because I like my letters, this was some sort of opportunity, rather than the punishment father intended it to be? It was a banishment! Like my mother before me, I was being cast out, expelled, sent to rot away on the other side of France! Out of sight, out of mind, the Borson way to deal with those who have served their purpose and have now become a nuisance!”

“And what was I to do?” cried Thor in turn. “I was powerless against him! We had done enough to displease him, and I was to pay harshly for our trespass. Another transgression, another defiance, and I might have been struck out of his will! And how would I have been able then to fulfil that which I had promised you?”

“I am sure that was the reason!” said the Trickster, with scoffing irony. “Do you really intend me to believe that you thought Odin would have disinherited the apple of his eye, his first born, his favourite son?”

“Oh, I was hardly his favourite anything then. You didn’t see his disgust at what we had done. No, he never forgave the blow I dealt him.”

“So you thought you could regain his favour by sticking to his heels like a lapdog?”

“I knew not what else to do!” cried Thor. “I was looking to the future! Our future, yours and mine! Father was old and frail, and much weakened by the shock of our sin. We needed but wait a few years, and we would have been masters of our lives and our destiny!”

“Does that help you rest at night, Odinson,” spat the Trickster.

“So what would you have had me do instead? Rebel? Flee? Pursue you to Paris? I had no trade, no fortune, no means! What were we to do, live under a bridge, feed on scraps? Would you have been able to support me peddling your letters and your numbers in the scribe’s quarter? Oh, how happy we would have been, with your ascetic tastes, and my patience for cold and hunger!”

“So you sent me to that fate alone instead!”

Thor roared in frustration.

“Was I not sworn to do what was fair to you, to your blood and your true origins? That upon father’s death, I would share all with you, even his name? That I would even let you have his shame to satisfy your revenge? All I owned would have been yours - my fortune, my heart, my soul!”

“And all I had to do was trust and hope!” countered the Trickster, sarcastic. “Hope that this heart you had pledged so quickly would not be reclaimed and soon enough granted to a wife and an easier life! No, go away, trust and hope! Wait, wait, wait, rely on the constancy of your devotion! Because of course I had every reason to believe the word of the son of Odin, especially when it is given between the sheets!”

Thor’s frustration emerged now as a mighty, inarticulate roar.

“MORBLEU! Not this again!” he was panting with rage, hoarse from straining his throat. “For the last time, Loki, my father never promised your mother a thing! You know it as well as I! But even if he had, even if he was the worst perjurer born, _I am not my father_!” 

In the pause that followed, the Trickster’s expression acquired a frown of bafflement, as if he had come to realise all of a sudden that both his own and his brother's masks of cold, uncaring contempt had crumbled, and concealed nothing anymore. 

After a moment, Thor grinned bitterly, his sight lost in space, or turned within - he laughed at himself. He too had realised that somehow, at one point during their exchange, and without ever meaning to, he had laid his heart bare. As if it stood there in the space between himself and his brother, bleeding, still beating, he decided it was of no use to keep playing his cards close to his chest. 

“How much more, how much more do you still require from me? When will it be enough?” he said, nothing but a pained, weary muttering. “If I had followed you to Paris and thrown away our only chance at a future together, would that have satisfied you? Is that the only pledge you would have accepted, that I ruined both our lives to prove that my love was true, and my heart yours? Well then, look at us now! Do you believe me at last?”

The silence that fell then in the room had an oppressive density to it, like a thundercloud on the verge of unleashing a storm. Perhaps from without, that silence appeared like an interlude, and so apt to be interrupted. The door slowly opened to reveal three rather confused musketeers, who had evidently been there long enough to hear a very loud, very disturbing exchange, but couldn't quite make sense of it.

“Apologies,” said Tony, Bruce and Clint right behind, “but that, uh, person we expected, he has been sighted at the gates.”

The Trickster was suddenly jolted by alarm and dread.

“Rochefort? He’ll be headed straight for this place! We are out of time! You must get me out of here now!”

“What new trickery is this?” asked Banner.

“No trick at all. Since I get to choose my poison, why not pick the one that comes in the prettier flask? Rochefort and his bloodhounds are efficient, but aren’t the King’s Musketeers dashing.” The jocularity in the Trickster’s words was dampened by exhaustion and the urgency of his fear.

“I do not understand,” said Tony.

“They must be in connivance somehow,” ventured Banner. 

“I bloody wish,” sighed the Trickster.

“He lies,” said Thor.

“I do not! If he finds me here now, I’ll be dead within the hour, or wishing that I was!”

“Why?” asked Tony. “Why should Rochefort wish you dead? Do you not serve the same master?”

“Precisely,” interceded Banner. “And in any case, doesn’t your patron protect you?”

“If you want to know the truth, give me the time to explain it to you! Get me out of here now!”

“Do not listen,” said Thor. “He lies.”

“Mercy’s sake, I do not! Not this time!”

“Perhaps we should do as he asks,” said Steve. “What difference would an hour make?”

“Hell is full of men who trusted this demon!” roared Thor, seething with wrath. “Men who listened to his sweet pleas, men who gave him an inch, a moment to compose himself, a second chance, a minute to explain! Men who dared to turn their backs on him for a blink! That’s what he is, what he does, how he has made his fortune! I will not trust one word he says, and if I ever do, you better believe I’ve said goodbye to this life and hope of heaven!”

Steve turned towards the Trickster by the bed, his shoulders sagging, forlorn, his eyes devoid of all spirit and spark, as if a part of himself, which up to this point he had refused to acknowledge, had indeed been putting his last hopes in this man who was just baying for his blood. To Steve, he appeared more than hopeless or disappointed. He was forlorn.

He must have felt Steve’s gaze upon him. He looked up to him, and offered the smallest, most lightless hint of a smile. Well, my dear, it whispered, we tried. 

As for Steve, call it stubbornness or perseverance, he wasn’t in the business of giving up a fight. He clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

“Come on, Trickster, let’s go,” said Steve.

“No!” protested Thor.

“Stay your anger, my friend, you are beyond reason!” pleaded Steve. “Rochefort is but minutes away! If he lies, and Rochefort is coming to aid him, then we cannot leave him here to be found! If he is telling the truth, and Rochefort is coming for his life, then the queen is lost just the same, and so am I! We must gain time!”

“He will be the death of all of us!” roared Thor.

“Then we will fall as one,” said Steve. He was clasping Thor’s arm, hoping to move his friend with the earnest, devout loyalty in his countenance. Now he added a note of the plucky humour he knew had endeared him to Thor from the very beginning of their acquaintance. “And if we should fall, we walk it off.”

Steve’s vehement plea finally reached through the fog of Thor’s ire. He turned to the Trickster. 

“One last chance,” he said. “What is your plan?”

The Trickster stood tall, arrogant, and magnificent.

“Either by the king’s justice or the Cardinal’s, I know I am not going to leave Calais with my life. But it cannot end like this, not just yet. I need more time.” His voice softened then with a plaintive note. “Unless you are finished with me, brother.”

Thor fixed a deadly stare on the Trickster. The fire that burned there was indeed far from spent. 

“You are quite right, we are not finished, you and I,” he groaned, as he clutched the Trickster’s arm with the ruthlessness of an iron manacle. “Move, then. Make haste.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "MORS TOUS LES ANGES!" and "MORBLEU!" are lifted straight from the novel. Cool, eh? I'm thinking of keeping them for use in my everyday life.


	8. The Trickster's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we last saw these kids, Rochefort's arrival in Calais had just been announced, and Loki was asking the Musketeers to move him somewhere else, and protect him, promising in exchange to answer all their questions. Thor was quite willing to let him rot, and it was Steve who had to step in and shake him out of his bloodlust against the Trickster, whom he blames for destroying the brother he once loved. 
> 
>  
> 
> “Well, then. Do you wish to know how it is that you’ve triumphed over me at last? Why has it been so easy this time, when it was never accomplished before? Why did I reveal to your friend who Milady really was?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no i had not forgotten! but i had one hell of a lot to do with this one. Is it watertight? is it leaking everywhere? Ctopey thinks it's solid. The language is far from Dumas, but hell i am SO TIRED. I NEEDED TO PUT THIS BEHIND ME DAMMIT. so, sorry to the fans of the master. 
> 
> anyway here's wonderwall.

 

They escaped out the back door from _L'auberge du maquereau et de la morue_  and dashed down the streets, Thor dragging the Trickster with a claw in his arm all the way, causing him to trip and stumble several times, though never allowing him to fall. Twice they brushed with the night watch and had narrow escapes. They knocked on the door of a tavern not far from the gates. The hôtelier, seeing the purpose and steely determination in their faces, dared not refuse them. He lodged them above the stables as they requested, ready to depart at a moment’s notice.

Thor slammed the door to the small room against the wall, and threw the Trickster in. Once all his friends were inside – but for Clint, who would take a place of vantage to observe and sound the alarm if trouble should arise – they shut the door, and awaited developments in silence. Had they been followed?

The Trickster was perched on the window sill, rubbing his arm, which his brother’s merciless grip had quite mangled. Thor avoided Steve’s censoring eyes at all times, which made it clear that their owner did not approve of Thor’s harsh treatment of the Trickster. But Thor wasn’t going to apologise for expediency, and with the Trickster’s history of miraculous escapes, the least that was to be expected was that he be firmly manhandled. No, Steve was not right to censor him thus, but yet Thor would not face him.

A quick whistle came, Clint’s signal that they were safe. They all sighed in relief.

“Well then, Trickster?” urged Tony. “You have been granted your reprieve. I suggest you use it well. Tell us all, and make haste. Why did you beg to be made safe from Rochefort? Why did you back out on the demands you put upon us and the King? Why does this entire adventure seem to make absolutely no sense? What is going on, Trickster?”

“It’s a long story,” said he tiredly.

“You have an hour,” grumbled Thor.

The Trickster sighed.

“Well, then. Do you wish to know how it is that you’ve triumphed over me at last? Why has it been so easy this time, when it was never accomplished before? Why did I reveal to your friend who Milady really was? The truth is, I let you catch me. I laid a trail of breadcrumbs leading from Steve to me, and then I stayed put, and waited for you to find me.”

“Why?”

“Because I am tired. This game does not amuse me anymore, and I wished to leave this life of secrets and intrigues. I made a great mistake, and I told Richelieu as much. Why did I do such a thing? Well, I had my reasons. The first one, and the stupidest of them all, always – I was greedy.

“Now, for many years, I have been stowing away stashes of coin and treasure all over Europe, ready for me should I ever need to disappear. But the Cardinal holds the purse strings to the greatest prizes, my estates and properties – both those he has already bestowed, and others which are still only a promise. Needless to say, he can take them away at any time he wishes. And he would have, if I had disappeared. Overzealous on his part, since once I had gone into hiding from him, I could never have shown my face to collect any revenues these estates provided. 

“And the second reason was that I did not want to spend the rest of my time on earth in hiding, looking constantly over my shoulder until either I left this world, or the Cardinal and all his minions who wish me dead left it before me.

“So, hoping to make an ordered departure that didn’t cause me to lose everything I had worked so hard for, and allowed me to exist in some sort of peace, I addressed the Cardinal candidly, and I opened up my heart. _I have lost the fire, your Eminence, I said, I am not useful to you anymore. Release me with my ill-gotten gains, obtained while rendering you many remarkable services_. And I tried to sweeten the pill: _I will still work for you in my humble capabilities. I shall train my replacement. I shall turn in everything I know.  I just do not wish to run around the continent risking my neck and seducing tickle-brained pricks to harvest your crop of secrets anymore. Just grant me my retirement, and a house somewhere, close to the delights of the city, any city (I am not that attached to France), far enough to be a reprieve from the world. Just swear to me my identity will not be known, and that I shall be left in peace. That is all I want, this is all I ask for._ Surely it was not too much, after ten good years of dedicated service.

“But Richelieu claimed he couldn’t bear to lose me, his most valuable asset, the greatest resource in his possession. So for months he toyed with me, delaying his answer, while he tried to make me reconsider; he bribed me with less taxing, more entertaining assignments, he improved my rewards. But greed was never my prime mover, what kept me afloat. I enjoyed sneaking in where nobody else could, finding out first what nobody else yet knew, earning the confidence of all those pompous asses who thought themselves so clever, beating them when they thought themselves safest. They all deserved it, all those beef-witted swines, that and much more, born to wealth and influence, undeserving of it, stepping obliviously over many far more worthy than they ever would be, taking it all for granted.

“But in time, the game turned repetitive, and I was quite fed up of faking delight while being groped by obnoxious twats. I had truly lost my hunger for it, and without it, in this business, I was dead in the water. Without my edge, I risked slipping up and being exposed. Even if I wanted to, I could not find it in me to muster the motivation whence my best tricks and stratagems once stemmed from. But the Cardinal would not hear it. _You need a holiday, my child,_ he said _. Take a rest, and come back next month, good as new_.  How could I make him let me go? I thought I had better become a less valuable asset, so I began to let myself slip up, I slacked, I purposely blundered missions. And in the meantime, I beseeched him, let me go. By now I had begun to realise he would never release me, but I simply refused to face it. Above all, I hate a prison cell, and my situation appeared before me as just that, my hopes of ever being free quickly vanishing.

“Last week he came to me, and told me, _one last mission, perhaps the most important of your career. Do this one thing for me, and you will be free_. You can imagine my dismay when I realised it involved our friend across the channel. And I was suspicious. Whatever could have changed his Eminence’s mind? _What is it_ , I asked him.

“‘ _A messenger is to be entrusted soon with a stack of personal letters, penned by Georges Villiers himself, marked with his private seal, and addressed to Anne of Bretagne. The messenger is to ride north, and return those letters by hand to Buckingham’s agent in Calais. Said agent will have in his possession a box of diamond buttons which Anne gave Buckingham as a token of affection, and which the king has requested Anne to wear at the crown ball, per my suggestion. Those letters must be retrieved, and those buttons must never reach the Queen. You shall steal both items and bring them to me._ ’”

“ _And has your eminence a plan, or am I to contrive it myself?_ ” I asked. 

“ _‘It will be as easy as stealing candy from a child,_ ” he said _._ “ _The agent in Calais is Buckingham, of course. When does he ever play it smart or safe, with Anne? As for the messenger of the queen, it is your dear old friend, Monsieur Rogers —our gamble with this unknown provincial finally paid off. It will pose no difficulty to you, for you have their trust already. Obtain the letters in Paris and the buttons in Calais, and once the mission is complete, you shall be free. Free to avail yourself of the fortune you have earned, and free to retire from my service with my blessings, and your estates granted in perpetuity._ ”

The Trickster sighed with tiredness. 

“Do you need to refresh your throat?” Steve asked softly, and offered his goatskin.

“Why are you so kind to me, _mon_ _cher,_ ” said the Trickster, though he didn’t formulate his words as if he expected an answer. His eyes met Thor’s in passing, and found them as cold and hostile as ever. He drank, and returned the goatskin.

“Continue,” urged Banner. “Why did you reveal your identity to Steve?”

“Because I suspected even before I set out that the Cardinal was going to play me. I was tempted to take him on it, of course, for he had spoken all that I desired. And herein laid the danger, did it not? Nobody promises more than one who does not intend to keep his word. No, I know him well. It was too good to be true, and my instincts told me to beware and be on my guard. For now, I would carry on with the plan. What else could I do? I would attempt to roll with the punches, jump blindly, and hope and pray that I would fall on my feet. I had to find out more of what the Cardinal had in mind for me, if I was to devise a strategy to defeat him.

“And so, Milady deWinter sent for Steve, and then made for an inn west of the city, where I would await him, and hope that his eagerness for Milady’s company was as strong as his loyalty to France. If I had done my job well, he would be there presently.

“While I was on my way, I felt I was being followed. By the clumsiness of the agent and the purple in his livery, flashing when I doubled back on my steps as I entered the inn, I knew it had to be one of Rochefort’s hound dogs. 

“That’s when I knew I had been right to mistrust Richelieu’s promises, and I knew that I was done for.”

“How do you know Rochefort was not sent in your aid?” enquired Tony.

“Because he hates me. He’d rather cut his nose rather than help me in any way. I know he’s had it in him for me for years, and I wondered sometimes how the Cardinal kept him on the leash. Now I know how - he surely must have promised him he would have his vengeance, once my usefulness expired. Oh, how many times had I told myself that it would not do to antagonise him so thoroughly, that I should not seek to make an enemy of him by mocking him, and ridiculing, him and stirring others to show him contempt. But since you’ve crossed paths with him, you know it’s practically impossible. The man is unbearably stupid, his pride as misplaced as a red dress at church. The very sight of his detestable face irritates me. And since he was never going to be my friend, no matter what I did, I suppose I decided I would have my fun. 

“If the Cardinal had put Rochefort on my tail, especially without informing me, that surely meant he never meant to set me free. And why would he? I know too much, I have seen too much, I remember too much. If I wasn’t actively trying to prosper as an agent in his organisation, then what compelled me to keep quiet? I could swear and double swear to him that I would forever hold my peace, upon my soul or whatever’s left of it, but what is the word of one whose trade is in lying? Richelieu has not made his way to the highest office in the land by trusting people and leaving loose ends untied. I was a walking liability to his Eminence. Many would offer wealth beyond imagining for the things I knew, many others would be hungry to put me to the rack and wrench them from my broken body. Not even cutting out my tongue would put the Cardinal at ease, not even cutting off my hands that I could not write. Only killing me would satisfy Richelieu that I would not seek another master’s protection in exchange for what I know. 

“So this is how the Trickster played himself. I was desperate to believe my own lies - that there was a way out for me, a hope for a different life. I should have faked my own death, dug up some of my stashes, and fled to the colonies —for nowhere in Europe is safe from the Cardinal, not when I have made so many enemies over the years. Why didn’t I? Ah, Richelieu, he knew I would never do that. He had buttered me up with all those properties and estates he had granted me through the years. They were not prizes and wages for my work, but links he added to my chain. _I’ll make you the most powerful man in France after me, and then you shall bow to no man. You shall be free_. That’s what he told me, and I thought I had been clever enough not to believe it, but alas, it seems I did. I would leave this job with his permission, or I would not leave it at all. He really had me by the scruff of the neck – or rather, by parts more ignoble. And when I told him I wished to leave, I signed my own death sentence. 

“And such was my mood when you found me, _cher_ Steve – I was struggling to make my peace with the realisation that all was at an end, that my future of comfort and independence, which had carried me through the years, and spurred me on to do loathsome things, revolting to my senses, had been a lie I sold to myself. I was going to die soon, and all I had done all those years had been for naught.”

“Soon after I walked through the door, you offered me a cup of wine, which I know now was laced with a sleeping drug, and then you took it from my hand before I even wet my lips,” said Steve. “Why?”

“A change of heart. If it was to be my last night of peace on earth, I might as well just make us both a gift. I desired you, that’s all. Perhaps I had no right, but I had not encountered decency and honesty and truthfulness in such long years.” The Trickster’s eyes darted to Thor, then were lowered. “Your devotion and your warmth…”

“Carry on with the story, Trickster,” cut Thor.

The Trickster addressed him a savage glare.

“Being there, with Steve, was the farthest thing from a hardship, for his beauty and his kindness much stirred my lust, so with great pleasure, I gave him my mouth,” he declared, his explicitness a deliberately brutal blow aimed at Thor’s feelings; it hit the target, as was apparent in the thunderclouds that darkened the Musketeer’s face. Meanwhile, a healthy blush had lit up young Steve’s face. The Trickster proceeded, now with his gaze vague, and avoiding all presents’ eyes. “And after that, as we rested together, I summarised in my head - I was truly done for, indeed. The Cardinal wished me dead, and he had left me to his bayhound, Rochefort. A slow death would never satisfy that man. Upon my reckoning, he intended to follow me to Calais at leisure, wait for me to secure the buttons, and once those were in my possession, he and his men would rain on me like hounds from hell, take the letters, the diamonds, and while the loot travelled back to Paris to the Cardinal’s hands, I would be left behind, for Rochefort to play with until his vengeance was satisfied – and that man’s black heart is a bottomless pit that could eat the sun and stars. 

“What about Buckingham?” enquired Banner. “Would he not have aided you? Could you not have offered him the letters in exchange for safe passage to England?”

“Oh, Buckingham. The man is a petulant, short-sighted, dimwitted jack-a-nape, and hates to be reminded of it. He would not have lifted a finger to help me, letters or not, not after he realised how I had played him for years. You saw how he reacted. And fearing that the real identity of Milady was discovered, thus making him the laughing stock in James’ court, he too would just as soon twist my neck and put an end to the story. In any case, rest assured that, should all my sweetest tricks by some miracle ever manage to entreat the duke’s help, Rochefort would have made sure that an international scandal broke out that very day, featuring our dear Englishman, your humble servant here, an unmade bed, not many clothes, and lots of witnesses, and made it seem that I was in on it. In fact, that may have been Rochefort’s plan all along, to expose us both, that Buckingham’s humiliation may bring him to pressure further for war on France. And James would not had been hard to persuade this time, for if the Duke was exposed with me in such a way, then suspicions would fall upon James’ own dealings with Buckingham. A war would had come in handy to obscure attention while, at the same time, showing them both for the virile, warlike great lords they would rather be taken for.” The Trickster rolled his eyes in contempt. “In the middle of this mess, the duke would have spared not a moment of his time in helping me out, the spy that had made a mockery out of him before the whole of Europe. After all was said and done, I would still be in Rochefort’s hands, who would have made certain that in no way I escaped unharmed from this upheaval. No, I could not rely on Buckingham at all. Rather, I had better fear him.

“But as we laid together, Steve and I, I felt there was fight within me yet. Perhaps you communicated some of your strength and endurance with your kisses and your passion, for warm in your arms, I found my instincts rising in arms, refusing to give up. The situation might be truly desperate, but what was I to do – roll over, lay down and die? I yet lived, I had my wits and my cunning, and now I also had the letters. The chance that I would get through this adventure with my head still attached to my neck may be slim, but I did not wish to go down without a fight. 

“So what to do? I was alone, without allies, and I was going to gain even more enemies before the day was done, when I left Steve’s bedside with his parcel. Who could I turn to now? Who stood by my side? No-one. There was no-one whose patience I had not abused, whose confidence I had not betrayed, and I had outlived my usefulness to all the others. But if I could get my hands on the diamonds as well, then I would have something to trade. With whom, I was not yet sure. It was a desperate bid, but I had to try.

“My first problem, of course, was Rochefort and his brutes. If they were after my skin, I needed muscle to fight them. The answer was right under my nose – or rather, lying beside me. The King’s Musketeers of course, above all loyal to the crown, with their own reasons to wish to see Richelieu’s plans thwarted, and no more friends than I with Rochefort. I had to engage your aid, gentlemen.

“But of course, I could not just run to your arms and ask for sanctuary, could I? Was I to just tell you the whole story, Steve? My identity, my situation? I could not do that, for you would have prevented me from appropriating the letters, and of course, from trying to obtain the diamonds. And even with your best intentions, your help alone was not enough. Against Rochefort perhaps, but against the Cardinal, you were utterly powerless to help me. I needed the letters, and I needed the diamonds, something valuable enough to someone powerful enough who could stand between the Cardinal and myself. I had to leave Steve behind, gain some hours on him, with enough time to reach Calais, and obtain the jewels. But at the same time, I had to make sure you followed, hopefully with all your comrades. So I revealed my sex, not my name, knowing that, while you perhaps would not connect Milady with the Trickster, your friends,” he turned to Thor, “much more experienced in the entanglements of Paris, would quickly realise that the affair had the Cardinal’s imprint stamped all over it, and that there was much at stake, and no time to waste.

“And I shall not lie, I had my knife at the ready that night, when I revealed the truth about my sex. I expected shock and revulsion, perhaps even a beating. I expected I would be needing to make a run for it, and I prepared myself to put up a fight. But then… shock, there was, a gaze of astonishment - How? Why? But then, instead of anger and humiliation and a murderous rage, came what seemed to me like a deep reckoning, and after that, you were as earnest and devoted as ever. I was before a soul as candid and good as I had ever known, and all your blinding, warming beams were aimed at my wretched, villainous self. I was quite overwhelmed, and moved beyond words, and so I came to you again.” The Trickster’s eyes were glowing with warmth. “As much as I would have wished to spend the rest of the night in his arms, the bells of Paris wait for no man, and I had to escape before dawn, when I had a chance to lose the agent Rochefort had set at my tail. But oh, as I should have expected, Steve is quite tireless, my friends, as well as a quick study. Furthermore, should his natural vigour and enthusiasm not suffice, our repeated transports gave him stamina. He truly left the Musketeers’ name in a good place that night.”

Steve’s countenance was infused with pink, Thor’s with red. The Trickster for a moment bore a smile in which amusement and endearment at the first, and satisfaction at the latter, were present in turn. Then he continued.

“I soon despaired that he would at any point go to sleep, and much to my chagrin – for I relish a young, beautiful stud as much as anyone – I was forced to speed matters. There were still pearls of sweat on your brow, and your visage was still flushed from your efforts, when I handed you the drink into which I had emptied the contents of my ruby ring. I kissed you as your eyes became heavy and drooped...”

The Trickster’s account was brusquely interrupted at that point by the sudden brush of Thor’s clothes as he stood to his feet and the heavy stomp of his boots as he walked away from the group, neither out of discretion or pride able to refrain his rage at those words. The Trickster’s eyes followed him, bright with an emotion that was more than just the sick glee of success at goading the jealousy in another. Cautious hope glimmered there too, like the flicker of a blue flame that, for a blink, glows yellow. He continued. 

“...And as you closed your eyes and sunk into the unnatural sleep of the drug, I wondered whether even you, so earnest and steadfast, would offer a hand in aid to the one who had just betrayed you and used you so cruelly. 

“Oh well, I had no choice but to carry on with the plan. I gave you that drink, took the letters, and escaped through the back window. I left my carriage behind, that Rochefort’s men would be deceived that I was still at the inn, and purloined a horse, leaving in its place a purse of silver, for I do not steal from the humble. I rode cross-field for some time, more slow-going than the road, but you have encountered Rochefort, and know it won’t do to underestimate his weasel instincts, especially when what was at stake was the possibility to finally have me in his claws. I made good progress, if with gritted teeth, for which I must blame Steve’s magnificent endowments.”

Steve concealed his face, as did Banner, while Tony laughed. The rage was apparent in the stiffening of Thor’s posture and the rise of his shoulders, even with his back to the group. The Trickster took a moment to enjoy the effects of his mischief before resuming his account.

“Rochefort knew where I was headed, of course, but you didn’t. However, since Steve’s mission involved the Queen, whom the Cardinal has in his sights for his wickedest designs, and your destination was Calais, I trusted you would head that way. But just to reassure you that you were on the right track, I made a point of showing my real face and leaving an impression on the road at every inn, whenever I could afford to stop.

“Once in Calais, I had to put on my Milady costume again, even before I purchased the use of a room to bathe and dress, for I could hardly enter as a man and leave as a woman without arising suspicion. And I surely could not present myself at Buckingham’s door with all the dust from the road – he would have kicked me back out at once. No matter what he says, it’s not my conversation he appreciates, you understand. I must confess I wept when I beheld myself in the mirror, and saw what those days on the road, the sun and the wind, had done to my complexion. Absurd, I know, but I am vain. I wish I had lived long enough to allow for youth and good care to let me recover before I meet my maker, but I’m afraid I’ll go to the grave with the ruddy and worn out semblance of a yeoman. At least I had ointments and powders to ease first impressions, and heads still turned for the elegant lady of regal carriage in her cloak and veil, as she made down the street in the twilight, but I cannot deny I was concerned about Georges’ reaction when he saw me.

“Well, Georges had been anticipating my arrival, and so was randy as a mule. When his prick talks, he can be the most accommodating and forgiving of men. His passion had little patience to consider that I had been riding for three days without stopping before I came to him. I am lucky for the high esteem he has for my mouth, for it was the only respite I was to get. I wish he was content to take his pleasure and roll over to sleep, as do so many others I have had the misfortune of entertaining, but he has himself for a great lover, attentive and generous, on account of always making the point to leave his bedmates satisfied. Which means, alas, that he always insists that I spend too, blast him, which is not easy with such hamfisted, disappointing attentions, and with my mind busy on much more pressing matters. To top it all up, since he has himself for a man of refined and elevated needs, in the interludes when his lust, satisfied, is in slumber, he always demands to be delighted, pampered, flattered, and entertained. Had he not enough with my body, that he also must have my bleeding conversation? He was a hell of a lot of work, that man. I truly hope that I have seen the last of him.

“I insisted as much as I could that he went downstairs for breakfast in the morning, and let me stay behind to bathe. For a chance of course to acquire the jewels and secret them away to a safe place, along with the letters, and for a bloody respite from his overbearing company, and his clumsy attentions. That half-baked cantaloupe completely neglected to secure the diamonds or take them with him, of course, as I had fully trusted him he would. While he was away, I searched his trunk for the black velvet box that I knew would be in what this overrated strategist of a man considers a secret compartment. I opened the box, and there they were, twelve diamond buttons Queen Anne had been foolish enough to gift him as a token of… what? It boggles the mind. A reward for Buckingham’s self-entitled doggedness, that would sooner see war break out between two nations than give up on a foolish love quest? Do not encourage him, your majesty, I prayed, France and England both beseech you.

“And now, all that was left to do was wait for you to arrive. For the first time in I could not remember how long, my mission was to stop running, stay put, and be found.”

“And you were found,” said Tony. “We are here, you still have all the bargaining chips in your possession, and you’re safe from Rochefort, for now. Your plan has worked, you have prevailed. Why, then, do you speak as if you were as good as dead?”

The Trickster sighed tiredly, and turned his face to the small, barred window.

“Because you are right. I was stupid to put my faith in Louis. The King will never agree to my demands, he fears me too much. And even if he did, he cannot protect me from Richelieu. There is no place on heaven or earth where Richelieu will not find me, no place where Rochefort won’t hunt me down. And the very last spark of hope in my heart, the very last thing that kept me going…” He sighed, his eyes once more darted quickly for Thor, who refused to meet his stare. The Trickster twirled mindlessly a ring on his finger. “There is nothing left,” he said softly. “And if I can choose, I’d rather have the king’s justice. At least, it specifies I must be cut to pieces _after_ I am hanged, and the only thing that is to be done to my corpse is burn it. That’s a great improvement over what Rochefort has in store for me, I’m sure.” 

“Poor, poor Trickster,” scoffed Thor. “Woe is you, how unfair life and this world, how terrible your plight. Are we to take pity on you, after all the havoc you have wreaked and all the pain you have caused?”

The Trickster kept his face turned to the window.

“I knew how hard you had sought me out all these years, and I dared hope that all you wanted was to find me. Foolish of me. I should have known you meant to make sure I burned in hell. But still, I would rather it be your hands to wrench my neck, rather than Rochefort’s.”

Thor met Steve’s eyes, which showed great disapproval. With a huff, Thor turned to the Trickster.

“Do you remember the name Fandral? Hogunn? Volstagg?” hissed Thor.

“Should I?” said the Trickster.

“The Trickster destroyed them,” said Thor, his hiss full of bile. “He pushed Fandral to public shame and dishonour, and caused him to be banished for life to the colonies and left there to rot; his intrigues ruined Volstagg, who was expelled from the Musketeers, and now lives in poverty with his whole family; and as for Hogunn, he lies beneath six feet of earth in _Les Innocents_ , when the Trickster unleashed upon him a whole battalion of the Cardinal’s men!”

The Trickster smiled, the gesture of his mouth a dejected, bitter twist, devoid of cheer or spirit. Ah, fortune had truly abandoned him today. He spoke wearily.

“The Trickster has done many things in his long career. He does not make a point of remembering them all. I had nothing personal against these men, and so no reason to remember them.”

“Demon! These were my friends!” cried Thor.

“It’s regrettable that our paths had to cross, then,” said his brother heavily. “Like I said, I had nothing against them. But haven’t the men you killed tonight have families? Wives who shall miss them? Children left to live in poverty?”

“What I do, I do it for my master!”

“As do I!” countered the Trickster, with a measure of defiance. “And what about your stupid duels of honour? How many have you killed like that? Didn’t they have souls, and debtors, and friends who mourn them? At least I’ve never killed for sport, only to survive!” After this, his tone again turned flat and lifeless.  “Like I said, I have done many things, and yet I am proud of only one: that I lived through all of them, and I stand undefeated. Yes, I am finished, but it is I myself who did it, no other man on earth, no King or Cardinal, no Duke, no assassin, and certainly no Musketeer. I’ve come to the end of the line, but it has been on my own terms.”

He was still mindlessly twirling a ring in the fourth finger of his left hand, and this time, the gesture drew Thor’s attention. And as the Trickster held the goatskin up again to drink, Thor was able to see it clearly, a circlet of gold encrusted with a zephyr, which was chipped on one corner. His eyes opened wide, and his hands, which had been clutching the wooden backrest of a chair, ever tighter as the Trickster’s tale unfolded, suddenly cracked the wood in his grip.

“Damn you, Loki!” he roared, and for good measure, he kicked the chair as well, which toppled over and broke to pieces. Huffing, rubbing his beard nervously, he paced away until he faced the wall, giving the group his back.

The Trickster’s eyes followed him, wider and brighter than they had been, and as if tied to a string attached to Thor’s hem, his whole body now yielded to him.

“Thor…?” he dared ask, a small, shy, tender flame of hope glowing in his eyes anew.

The rest of the Musketeers questioned each other in silence with baffled looks, all but one much confused as to what was transpiring without words between the Trickster and their friend.

Steve gazed from one to the other, and heavily sighed. And perhaps he was the most foolish of them all, perhaps he deserved every mockery and contempt, and perhaps no injustice had been done upon him that he was not ready to commit himself, for not only did Steve still love tenderly the man who had deceived him, betrayed him, stolen from him, ruined his good name before his master, and probably ended his career in Paris, but he was ready to facilitate the reconciliation of his beloved with the only one on earth who was truly a rival for the heart Steve yearned for. He unnerved himself, and yet, he was already rising from his chair.

“Gentlemen,” he said softly. And he quietly entreated the Musketeers to abandon the room, leaving the Trickster and his brother by themselves. 

 

 

 


	9. The last trick in the Trickster's bag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor and Loki finally drop their masks and have a proper heart to heart. But they're running out of time. Rochefort is coming...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I dedicate this to @Bouzas_Id
> 
> I wrote this thinking of you looking forwards to it! Thank you for the extra kick!

“Damn you, Loki!”

“Thor…?”

The door closed gently and the brothers were alone. Thor was still turned towards the wall to conceal the agony in his face. For his friends, for the Queen, for God, and for France, he should not be feeling torn apart with his desire to take all his brother had spoken to his heart, and forgive it all. But try as he might, inside he bled. In spite of all his own warnings earlier to Steve, for all he knew from bitter experience in previous dealings with the duplicitous Trickster, Thor couldn’t deny that he was moved, that he believed his brother’s story, his confession, and his reasons. The warnings of his own conscience regarding skepticism and caution were in vain. He had been searching for so long. He wanted to believe. Hiding his face would do little to keep the truth from the Trickster, but it was Thor’s last line of defense before admitting total defeat.

Meanwhile, another internal contest raged within the Trickster. Loki had always prided himself on his skill at reading people’s minds, their intentions, their wills and desires. It was his stock in trade, and he was a master at it. He examined the chair Thor had savaged in his early surge of emotion, the forward set of his shoulders, defensive in nature, and interrogated the broken note of feeling in Thor’s previous exclamation. Should it be anyone but Thor, he would have read them clearly. He would know with certainty whether approaching now was the right action at this moment, or whether it was staying distant instead. Whether it was wisest to let silence work its effect, or whether he should speak again and beat the metal while it was hot. He might have miscalculated once or twice in his long career, but nevertheless, he seldom found himself so confused. Only with his brother was his vision so clouded, for Loki could never fully divest himself of his own desires and hopes, his own fears and misgivings, the distortions of their long common history. He could not look at Thor under the light of cold reason alone – he never could. Jealousy and affection, expectations and reproaches, joys and heartbreak, Loki could never set them aside. They distorted the image before Loki’s eyes and left him uncertain of his own judgement and intuition, almost guessing in the dark.

Ironically, Thor could always see through him, but he did not realise. To him, Loki appeared as an enigma much too complicated for his direct, open gaze. What was more, Thor’s gaze, full of unwavering love and faith in his broken little brother, seemed able to change that which he stared into. It was hard not to feel a pull to strive for better and more elevated pursuits when your brother looked at you as if you were an angel from heaven. Many times Loki had needed to conceal himself from his brother’s eyes, unforgiving and exhausting in their summons to goodness, but tonight Loki was desperate for his brother to look upon him again as he used to, as if he’d never lost his faith in him.

“Brother,” he entreated softly, taking only one step closer, afraid of a violent rebuff.

“Why did you not wait!” exclaimed Thor, with the flesh of his voice stripped bare by the claw of emotion, only dry bones rattling in his words.

“Wait?”

“Did I not promise? Did I not swear? And all you needed to do was wait!” Thor filled his lungs, trying to quell the choke in his throat. “I swore upon my soul! I wanted to share it all with you! I would have done it gladly! I asked but one thing from you, and even that you could not grant me! Why?”

Now the Trickster understood where Thor’s thoughts had turned to. _Oh brother, of all the reproaches I am due, you chose this_.

“Did you not see?” insisted Thor, turning towards Loki at last, his eyes glistening with tears. “Did you not see how weakened father was left after his stroke? Did you not see how little time we’d have to wait? Oh, that I would have felled him there that morning, and shortened his agony, and ours! And I did not, for I took heart in his condition, and I thought that so would you. But you could not wait! Why couldn’t you!”

The Trickster turned down his gaze with a broken smile, unable to look at his brother. He found a seat Thor had not ripped apart and plummeted upon it heavily, with a deep exhale.

“You fool,” he softly said.

His brother scoffed.

“You’re the one who cheated himself out of your revenge over our father’s wrongs, and my fortune! You could have had it all, at the price of a few months! And you call _me_ a fool?”

In his seat, Loki meditated. He truly felt wrung out and scraped to the bone. After a lifetime of lies and deceit, tonight, a full confession, emptying himself to a room of strangers. He had truly had enough of searching his soul tonight. But his brother still wanted more, still demanded more, as was his wont.

Loki could easily end this interview with the right version of the story. He was a born storyteller – spinning tales was what he did. What was one more? And yet, when he opened his mouth, his tongue betrayed him, and it uttered the truth.

“What you wanted was impossible,” he said.

“Impossible, why?” argued his brother.

Oh well, there’s nothing for it now, thought Loki. More soul-searching it is.

“I was still in transit to Paris when I realised how it had to be,” elaborated Loki slowly. “As long as I lived, you would never give up on that ridiculous dream. I would never dissuade you. If I ever saw you again, who’s to say you wouldn’t have won me over with your sweetness and your blind faith. I had to be gone, or we would have been destroyed, both of us.”

“Destroyed?”

“Oh, brother!” huffed Loki in exasperation, rubbing his eyes, behind which a headache was mounting. “You would share everything with me? You mean live together in Asgard, and never take wives? In that backward hamlet full of busybodies? How long before talk had reached the four corners of the province? How long before your relatives, thirsty for the estate, had us both judged for obscenity, and taken everything from you?”

Thor blinked like the short-sighted boar he was. It might have never even crossed his mind, any of that.

“Who’s to say they would have prevailed?” Thor replied stubbornly. “And what if they had? We might have had five years, or a year, or six months! We might have had a week, or a day! One single day with you, that would have been enough!”

“Oh, Thor…” sighed Loki.

“I would have flung myself into the sun for you!” declared his brother.

A surge of passion brought Loki to his feet.

“Maybe I did not want you to fling yourself into the sun for me!” he exclaimed. “Maybe I did not want us to burn! Maybe I wanted us to live!”

“Some life it’s been!” roared Thor, now standing but one foot away from Loki’s face, fists clenched dangerously at his sides. “I hope it was worth it!”

“Oh, I could kick you!” cried Loki, and stomped away. Thor’s reproach had sunk deep into his heart like a cold merciless knife. And in a much softer voice, he uttered, “How dare you say such things to me.”

“What, the truth?”

“That a lifetime of adventures, and all the glory earned in your country’s name, and all the friends you’ve made, and all your loves, and all your days, that it’s all been for naught because of me. My parting gift to you, and you throw it back in my face.”

Thor found himself at a loss about what to do with that.

“Parting gift?”

“Do you think it was easy for me?” muttered Loki. “Do you think I did not wish to dream, like you? But one of us had to keep his head, and because of your stubbornness, it fell on my shoulders. You claim you would have swapped fifteen years of worthy pursuits for one single day in sin with me? How dare you.”

It was Thor now sinking to the ground, his back to the wall.

“Listen to yourself,” said Loki, now pleading. “Behold yourself. The man you are, the man you’ve always been. How could I let you wreck it all and walk into the flames of hell and infamy over me? Even at my best I could not have asked that of you. But have you forgotten how I was then? Have you forgotten the bitterness that infected my soul, the burning well of hatred within me? I was not worthy of what you had pledged to me, Thor. I could never accept it.”

“I would have made it better,” declared Thor, looking up with a renewed brightness in his eyes. “It was within my means. I saw it that night. Did you not see? My love got through to you. I found you where you wandered, angry and lost, and brought you back to us, to you and me…”

“No, brother mine,” Loki shook his head heavily, “no creature under the heavens could do that. Only time. Had you tried to fight those ills back in the day, they would have consumed you too. Please, forget the past, forget what could have been. It could never have happened any other way. This manner of thinking will accomplish nothing except driving you insane, and take away from me the last good, selfless thing I ever did. I gave up on you, that you could live.”

“I suppose I’ve had a life,” Thor granted bitterly. “If you can call it that.”

“Yes, my plan didn’t quite work out, this time.”

“Your plan?”

“I thought in time you would give up on me. Assume me lost, return to Asgard, forget our folly, and heal. I thought perhaps you would marry cousin Sif, like father wanted, and then, with a wife and children of your own, one day I would become for you nothing but a long lost _rêverie_.”

Thor scoffed.

“How cruel you think I am? Marry a good woman, only to inflict upon her a loveless marriage?”

“You were well-suited.”

“Sif hated the farm. She hated the country. She yearned for adventures. She would rather have put on men’s clothes and joined the army than marry me or anyone.”

“That is exactly what I mean. You understood her, and you respected her. You could have set her free from the obligations her family wished to impose on her. Grant her the protection of your name, of Asgard, cut off her chains. Perhaps you still could. Last I heard, she was still unwed…”

“Oh, please… What have I to offer her anymore. Before I drank our whole estate, perhaps.”

Loki kneeled beside him, suddenly eager, hope in his eyes.

“Asgard can be reborn,” he insisted. “Would it not be a worthwhile pursuit, for you and for her, to restore it to its former glory? I cannot bear the thought of it all going to wreck and ruin.”

“Is that why you requested it, along with your fifty thousand gold _Louis_?” challenged Thor.

“I suppose you don’t believe me,” muttered Loki sourly in response.

Thor examined the man kneeling beside him, the melancholy set of his features, his heavy countenance. Was this a mask, or was it the arrogant, brazen fiend who had insolently defied them all only a few hours ago? Were they all masks? Had the real man vanished behind his endless disguises?

“When I came to Paris to look for you,” said Thor, “when I refused to give up your search, when I was letting Asgard rot in chasing your shadow, when it was clear your plan was futile, and that I cared for nothing else but finding you, that I would never stop, why did you not reveal yourself? We were both ruined. We had nothing to lose anymore. Why did you not come to me then?”

Loki’s eyes remained averted, armoured now behind a hard, cold veil.

“I should have done,” he said gravely. “I had already done much that shamed me by then. I should have come to you as I was, let you see what had become of your little brother, and break your heart in one single blow, rather than this slow agony. That would have been the noble, selfless thing to do.” His voice now thin with regret. “But I didn’t. Selfish that I am, it warmed my wicked, sick little heart to think of you still out there, nursing the dream of the few golden days we had, and that one night. When tonight you spoke to me so cruelly, as if all your love had truly dried out, I…” Loki’s voice cracked. He covered his mouth and turned his face away, but Thor had already spotted the tears gathering at the corners of his brother’s eyes.

“Oh, Loki…” He leaned towards him, close to tears himself. Had Loki really thought about Thor’s pain and his longing all these years? Had Thor really not been alone in his melancholy? He reached for him.

“Do you know, brother mine, how hard I struggled to destroy those memories?” said Loki with a thread of voice, shrinking away from his brother’s touch. “How much I tried to poison them, burn them, tear them down? That little flame within that reminded me of the one good thing I had ever really had, of a time when I was good, and able to love, and was able to be loved in return? I would cling to my reproaches, old as time, and refuse to think of you by name. You were the son of Odin, and all his blame was yours too, my mother’s misfortune, my own crimes. I did all I could to stoke my hatred of you, trying to burn it all down. And I almost, almost succeeded. I’ve become so adept at spinning webs of lies, I sometimes entrap myself. But then the Cardinal or Rochefort would curse the name of a certain member of the Royal Musketeers, and I would hear of his latest deeds, a man of such courage and chivalry he was like a wandering knight of old. A formidable adversary for us, and the most loyal friend to his friends. The bane of the rich and powerful, and the champion of the weak and the helpless. A thorn in the Cardinal’s side, and a jewel in Louis’ crown. And so, the distorted picture I had barely succeeded to paint of you in my mind would set itself to rights, and you would appear in my heart as you truly are, innocent of all the crimes I have ever tried to pin on you, the kindest, noblest, bravest soul, strong-headed and boorish and faithful to a fault, the one I loved when I still had my innocence and a more tender heart. The one I had grown up looking up to, the one I yearned to emulate, the one who guided my steps down the better paths.”

Thor reached for Loki again, and this time the Trickster did not shy away from his hand. He closed his eyes blissfully when he felt his brother’s rough touch on his face. Thor beheld those familiar features one by one, as if the mask had truly dropped now, and he was at last seeing his brother. He wished to say something. He could not.

The following, Loki whispered with his eyes still closed.

“…The one I longed for with body and soul, against the laws of God and men. The one I least deserved, that was the only one I wanted.” Loki opened his eyes, touched his brother’s face in turn. “The one whose only weakness, whose only sin, was his love for me. Is that not what I am, then and now, brother mine? The bane of your days, your undoing, your doom.”

Thor trapped his brother’s hand against his face and closed his eyes. That skin and flesh he had longed for, that warmth. He kissed it, breathed it in, and let it be his whole world for a blessed instant.

“That is not all that you are,” he muttered.

“What else is there?”

Thor opened his eyes and regarded that beloved face again, this time with a broken smile. He drew him near until they were but a breath apart.

“This,” he whispered, and he kissed him.

He tasted his brother’s tears, and felt his soft sobs as he embraced him. He covered his mouth, his face, his hands, and his mouth again with kisses made clumsy with his eagerness, like an unskilled, green young boy who wants to be led astray and doesn’t know how. He chuckled at himself. Fifteen years of experience he could call upon this time, all vanished because it was his brother’s lips he was kissing.

“My love…” he muttered, his voice strained again, this time with elation. He pulled Loki onto his lap, that he could feel all of him. “Loki, Loki…”

He sighed, hugging him tight, now kissing his throat too. All his, at last! Not even the floorboards beneath them may have him! If he should open his eyes, he’d find Loki with his own eyes closed, shivering like a leaf, so lovely in their debauchery and given entirely to him. He crushed him more strongly still, and relished the little sound of delight from his brother’s lips. He kissed him deeply again.

“There is still hope,” said Thor suddenly, his heart beating madly.

Loki’s eyes flickered open like butterfly wings.

“Hope?”

“All that we should have had, we can still have it.”

His brother smiled sadly.

“Oh, Thor,” he sighed, and began to pull away from him.

Thor held him close.

“Whyever not?” insisted Thor. With his brother in his arms, and the taste of Loki’s lips in his mouth, he felt like Hercules and Achilles and Jupiter combined, able to stand up to dragons and giants and an entire army of men with the power of thunder and lightning. “Do we not yet live? Are we not together? We flee. Tonight. Right now. We change our names. I shave my beard and cut my hair, and you transform yourself like only the Trickster can. We make for the colonies. With your wits and my arm, we try for it!”

Loki shook his head sadly.

“Have you forgotten Richelieu?”

“Well, how long is his arm?” exclaimed Thor, exasperate. “There must be a corner or two on this earth that he cannot reach! He’s not the prince of darkness!”

“And shall we settle in a hut among the savages, never to hear another word of French for the rest of our days, or shall we run and live in fear until they find us?”

“Well, we live!” argued Thor, holding his brother’s hands. “We might have a month or a week or a day. We might never make it to the boat. So what? Is that a worse fate than sitting here waiting for death? Who’s to say we won’t get lucky? We flee and we live, together, for as long as we can, and we fall together if we must.”

Loki seemed half blinded by the light and fire coming from his brother now.

“It’s a beautiful dream,” he muttered.

Thor clasped his brother’s hands and stared into his eyes. He almost had him now.

“Then let us dream, together,” he whispered.

“You would, after all these years,” Loki said, with barely any voice at all. “After all I’ve done.”

Thor smiled sadly, for if his brother’s crimes were unforgivable, Thor’s forgiveness must surely be an even worse crime. He cupped his brother’s face in his hands, and kissed his forehead.

“Always,” he said.

“Oh, Thor,” Loki’s eyes flooded anew. He sought his brother’s embrace, and whispered, “you truly are the biggest, sweetest idiot in the whole of Christendom.”

They both clung to each other tight, as only those who have known true grief and separation can. Thor sighed deeply, in bliss, for he felt he truly had him now, and everything would be alright.

“But my dearest,” whispered Loki. “We are alone, with Rochefort at our tails. We will never even make it to the gates.”

“We will, with my friends’ help.”

“You’d ask them to defy the king’s mandate? To risk their lives for my sake?”

“I’d risk the fate of France entire,” sighed Thor tiredly. He lowered his gaze, half in shame. “I have given my best years, and blood, and sweat, and tears, in the service of the King. I have thrown in my lot with that of my friends’ time and again. On this adventure, I have risked my neck for Steve’s name and the Queen’s reputation. I would have died for all their causes. I almost have, a hundred times. For once, I would fight for myself. For you. And if they love me, they will join me.”

“Don’t ask them that,” begged Loki. “You won’t be able to live with yourself if you do.”

“What other choice do we have?”

“Only one,” said Loki, pushing away. “Let them deliver me to the King’s justice.”

“No, Loki!” cried Thor, and clung on, feeling his brother pulling away from him in body and spirit.

Loki tugged Thor’s hands away from himself, and held them.

“It’s for the best,” he whispered. “You can stand by my side when they swing the axe-”

“Don’t ask me that,” sobbed Thor, his eyes flooded.

“...Stand close to me so that the last face I see in this life is one of love. You can ensure the cut is clean and swift. And don’t let the executioner have it all, take my jewels and my valuables and give them to your friend Volstagg and his family.”

“Loki…”

“…And after I’m burnt,” continued Loki, “take at least a handful of my ashes, and scatter them in our olive grove, in Asgard, where we were happy once.”

“Brother, don’t…” cried Thor, his words choked in tears. “Please don’t speak like that.”

“Forget about me, forget about the Trickster, forget about it all.” Loki stroked his brother’s face with tenderness. “Remember only him, the boy to whom you gave your ring. Remember that we once loved each other well and vowed to be together always. And tell yourself that in another world, in another life, we did. That we still live there now, forever young, and together.”

“Loki…” pleaded Thor, his brother’s image a blur through his tears.

Loki kissed his face many times, and hugged him. Thor’s own arms felt weak and useless. What was the use of them, of his sword? The mighty Thor was helpless to aid his brother. He buried his face in Loki’s clothes and cried. Loki on his lap rocked them both gently, petting his brother’s hair, hushing him tenderly.

Then a loud, piercing whistle froze the blood in their veins.

“What is that?” gasped Loki, startled.

“Hawkeye,” whispered Thor, dumb with fear. “It’s the alarm.”

They both stood up, rigid with tension. They heard clatter and bustle on the floor below, rough shouts, heavy footsteps up the stairs.

“Rochefort,” said Loki, with a terrified whisper. “He’s found me.”

“You must flee!” said Thor.

Loki smiled sadly.

“Too late.”

Yes, it was, and Thor knew it. He squared his jaw, stood between the door and his brother, and unsheathed his sword.

“Stay your arm, you oaf!” scolded his brother. “Don’t you know that cowardly weasel? They surely outnumber you at least ten to one! They’ll kill you without a thought if you try to fight them!”

“Let them try,” he said. And he mumbled to himself, “Where are my friends?”

Loud knocks on the door, startling them both.

“Open up! In the name of the Cardinal!”

Loki grabbed his arm and tried to pull it down.

“Use your brain! Give in!” he insisted. “If they kill you now, who will avenge me?”

The door burst open and smashed against the wall. Immediately, men started pouring in, about a dozen. Mercenaries, Thor waged. At least they were not the Cardinal’s guard, doggedly loyal to their patron, and all too willing to fight for him to the death. Thor planted his feet wide, _en garde_.

Then the men moved aside to let in a tall, grim figure, with a hooked nose emerging over a big black mustache, combed to distract attention from the monstrous scar that marked the left side of his face from eyebrow to jaw. His piercing black eyes took in the sight of his prey with sick satisfaction.

“What have we here? What a cozy scene!” he purred. “Well, Trickster, I am impressed! I would have sworn the mighty Thor of the Royal Musketeers cared only for his drink, but even he has fallen for your charms! Is there truly nobody you cannot seduce?”

“Only you,” spat Loki. “What a team we might have made, had you more brains and a less annoying countenance.”

Rochefort sneered. He was fully confident in his triumph. He could afford to be magnanimous.

“My poor friend,” he said, now turning to Thor. “I am truly sorry to interrupt what was no doubt the sweetest interview, which I’m sure was only about to get even sweeter. From the state of your clothes, it seems you haven’t got all you could have from him just yet. I don’t suppose you’ll offer me any gratitude for rescuing you from this snake’s spell, although you should. And what exactly did he tell you? What tale did he spin, that you’re now ready to face all twelve of my men in a desperate bid to save him?”

“Exactly,” hissed Thor. “I’m ready. Have you come to talk, or to fight?”

“I am a civilised man – I can do both,” smirked Rochefort. “Tell me, then, which of his tricks did he use to ensnare the honorable and mighty Thor? The sweetness of his lips, I see, but what lies did he pour in your ear? Some who are less skilled know how to tell a man what he wants to hear. This one? This one does better than that. He manages to tell a man what he himself did not even know he needed to hear. So, did he protest his innocence and call it all a big mistake? Oh no, I’m sure he didn’t, not with you. Knowing you for a man of wits and practical morals, he must have confessed to all his crimes, beat his chest in tears, full of self-loathing and regret, and appealed to your tender heart. How convincingly he must have cried over a life wasted, how low he must have dragged himself at your feet. I bet soon enough he had _you_ trying to convince _him_ he wasn’t entirely wicked! I bet soon enough he managed to have you let him cry in your arms and whisper to him softly there was hope for redemption for him yet!”

Rochefort’s sickening words were not passing through without a trace. Thor’s hand was shivering. He turned to his brother, seeking in his beloved face reassurance and strength. Instead he was met with the Trickster’s hard, cold stare, and a smirk of contempt.

“Indeed, he was willing to get his own friends killed over me all the way to the gates,” said the Trickster with scorn. “Had I not found a horse, he would have carried me down the road on his own shoulders.”

“Loki…?” Thor frowned gravely, feeling the floor giving under his feet.

“Oh, brother, are you ever not going to fall for it?” said the Trickster. “Didn’t Buckingham warn you? Did you not warn Steve yourself? _Never_ be alone in the same room with the Trickster. His words turn black to white, and white to black, and he always, always escapes. When I thought I had run out of men in Europe to ensnare, I remembered there is always _one_.”

“I-I don’t believe you,” muttered Thor.

“In each embrace, I felt for hidden weapons,” whispered the Trickster venomously. “Another kiss, and I would have stolen the dagger strapped to your back.”

“Loki…” Thor felt as if sinking in a bottomless pit of black water.

“I am sorry, brother, I truly am,” said the Trickster, with a shallow, lazy imitation of remorse. “But like I said, I was not going to just roll over and die. I was going to go down fighting. I had to have one last try, and I’m afraid that was you.” He shrugged, almost smiled.

Then the Trickster turned his gaze away, as if discarding a tool that had done its job, and was now of no more use. He stepped towards Rochefort and the mercenaries tensed up, raising their swords.

“Oh please, put them away,” sighed Loki. “There is no need. I’m done here. The game is up. I am defeated.”

Rochefort wasted no time in locking a pair of heavy iron manacles around the Trickster’s wrists. Then he searched him.

“Victory does something interesting to your idiotic semblance,” mused the Trickster to Rochefort as he was ruthlessly pawed and jostled. “You look almost handsomer than an ape now, were it not for that hideous scar that deforms your face.”

The thirst for blood glimmered in Rochefort’s eyes like a fever, and only the promise of imminent satisfaction prevented him from ripping his prisoner’s guts out right there where he stood.

“The first thing I shall do to you is cut off that silver tongue of yours and make you swallow it,” he hissed.

“My tongue will still be worth more when it comes out than your brain ever will where it is now. And look more appealing than your beastly semblance.”

Rochefort trembled with wrath. He snapped a cruel claw around the Trickster’s arm and shoved him forward.

Just before he disappeared through the threshold, the Trickster turned to his brother.

“Give my regards to cousin Sif,” he said, as they dragged him away to torture and death.

 

Thor stood in the empty room like a scarecrow that’s come unhooked, sagging and empty, his heart broken and bleeding where his brother had driven in the blade of his cruel betrayal. He remained paralysed, as the clatter of metal and the stomp of the heavy boots of the mercenaries down the stairs began to ease. And then, in the quiet, Thor heard his brother’s words again.

 _Give my regards to cousin Sif_.

Realisation dropped on him like a bucket of ice water.

“Good God,” he gasped, and he dashed out at a run.

Yes, indeed, the Trickster had played him once again. The only way Loki could get Thor alive out of that room was by stabbing him in the heart one last time.

Thor scrambled down the stairs and burst into the street. He looked to either side. The night was pitch black, and Rochefort’s group was nowhere to be seen. Thor’s chest was heaving, drawing in huge gulps of air, his body shivering all over. Alas, they’re gone! All is lost! Ah, fool! You harebrained, half-baked, thick-minded ass! How could it take you so long to understand! And now they have him, and all is lost!

Calm down, idiot. Gather what little wits you have, and think! Listen now, listen!

Thor held his breath and closed his eyes, trying to hear in the night. There were sounds and echoes rebounding in the narrow streets, coming from all sides. He didn’t have a clue where to start.

Then a cruel laughter, which might have been Rochefort’s, rung in the night, or perhaps in his mind.

“Quiet, drunkards!” bellowed a voice, and there was a splash of water, probably a chamberpot emptied onto somebody’s head.

“Go to bed, old nag!”

And a choir of ugly laughter.

That way! Thor ran.

He turned two corners and was lost again. _Stop and listen_.

Another voice, not far – “Stand up, damn you!”

This way! _Wait for me, brother…_

“Keep up! … _Ow_!”

“Be quiet!”

“He bit me, sir!”

“Then you owe him a Louis or two!” laughed someone. “Some men have paid fortunes to have that mouth on them!”

More laughter.

Thor followed the bustle, his side throbbing. He turned a corner, and there they were!

“Rochefort!” he cried, sword in hand, panting with the strain of his desperate run, and the wound in his side aching again.

The mercenaries faced him.

“You fool! Stay your arm!” shouted Loki’s voice in the darkness, his face pale under the moonlight.

Thor was all by himself, and they were a dozen. And where the hell were his friends?

 _Dear old boy,_ he told himself, _tonight we die._ He sought his brother’s face and smiled. _At least I will not survive you_.

“ _En garde!_ ” he shouted, and hurled himself at the melée.

He heard Loki’s desperate cry, “Thor, no!”

Thor fought. He was not entirely helpless. The narrow streets played in his favor, for although they were many and he was one, they could not come all at once, and they could not easily pass him by and surround him.

The first cut, to the hand, he barely felt. He got rid of his attacker with a solid blow of his elbow to the man’s throat, crushing him to the wall, his only ally in this fight. Thor’s heavy travel cloak and his leather doublet did something to soften the next blow, across the back, but the foe’s blade still broke the skin. If he survived tonight, he’d be telling the story of that noble scar. He crushed between his body and the wall one that tried to bypass him and come at him from behind, and shattered the man’s nose with his head. But the next one was already on him, and this one too landed a blow on Thor’s chest, leaving him breathless for a moment. And behind him came another, and another, and another.

“Rochefort, pull back your men!” Loki cried, his voice a terrified shriek. “Or you’ll never have the buttons or the letters!”

Thor fought on. He parried three deadly blows in a row, the first two with his sword, the third with his arm, which screamed in pain. He thought he’d killed two and put out three, and he could tell their mercenary resolve was faltering, intimidated by Thor’s brawn and skill. Had they been as motivated as the men of the Cardinal, Thor would be dead already. But there were so many.

“Rochefort!” insisted Loki. “The rack won’t get it from me, you know that! You’ll have to tell your master you failed your mission because your pride wished an insignificant Musketeer dead!”

Now Rochefort turned to the Trickster, and assessed him with those cold, dead eyes.

“Rochefort, use your head,” said the Trickster, with deceptive calm. “If he dies, the Queen carries the day, and you and your master lose. Stand down your men.”

With an angry huff, Rochefort made up his mind. He grabbed Loki and pressed a knife to his neck.

“Musketeer, _arrête_!” he commanded to Thor. “Stop or it all ends now!” And to his men, “Stand down! Don’t kill him.”

Tired and bleeding, Thor suddenly noticed they had stopped coming at him. Panting, he tried to take stock of the situation.

“Throw away your sword,” commanded Rochefort.

And now Thor saw the dagger against his brother’s neck.

The sword in his hand was as heavy as if made of solid lead, and his hand struggled to hold it. His arms were weak, and now that he had stopped, every wound he had received, until then numb with his battlelust, had woken up and was screaming.

Where in the hell were his friends.

“Throw your sword, Musketeer!” shouted Rochefort.

Thor heard a soft gasp from Loki when Rochefort pressed the point of his blade into his flesh. A ribbon of black silk unfolded down the creamy column of Loki’s throat and stained his white collar.

Thor let the sword fall with a clatter on the cobbles.

“We have pending business, you and I, Musketeer,” said Rochefort. “I will still have repayment for this” – his scar, which indeed Thor had put there, many years ago.

“Thor,” begged Loki, in a mutter. “Flee. Live. My ashes.”

Rochefort and his men pulled back, dragging Loki with them.

Thor looked on in despair. He was far too weakened to fight anymore. Where the hell were his friends?! He was not too weak for one last stupid hope, his last, desperate resort. Stumbling and shuffling, he shouted.

“Guard! To me!” He held his side, which throbbed and bled, and tried to keep up with Rochefort. “To me! The guard! For the king!”

He saw Rochefort and the mercenaries turning their faces this way and that, checking around for that ghost guard Thor was trying to summon. They kept running. Thor followed as he could, limping with the constant stabs into his side from his reopened wound.

“I’ll kill him, Musketeer!” threatened Rochefort over his shoulder, seeing Thor in dogged pursuit.

 _No you won’t_ , Thor thought to himself, panting and shuffling. _You still need the buttons and the letters!_

“To me, the guard!” cried Thor, with the last of his breath.

The echoes of the mercenaries running in the night seemed to grow. But wait! Were those hooves? Could it be…?

With renewed vigor, Thor shouted.

“To me! The guard! After them! For the king!”

Then they doubled a corner, and there they were, at last! Steve and Clint, with what seemed like a whole battalion of soldiers from Fort Neulay! Oh, thank God, prayed Thor in silence, finally able to stop. Every breath cost him dearly, and his chemise was wet where the blood from his wounds had soaked through the bandage.

“Stand down!” cried Rochefort. The dagger he had pressed to Loki’s neck, now he held in front of him, ridiculous before so many men. He was surrounded and outnumbered. “Let me through! This is a business of Cardinal Richelieu!”

“This man is a prisoner of the King! We were bringing him to the king’s justice! He is the one they call the Trickster! These men are trying to prevent his arrest!” declared Steve to the soldiers. And if Rochefort looked like a pitiful cornered animal, Steve was the picture of serenity, with justice and right on his side.

The sergeant stepped forward and silently appraised with his gaze the strange, confusing scene before him. He surely knew of the age-old rivalry between the Cardinal’s men and the King’s Musketeers, and now he must decide whom he favoured. And it would not be only on the basis of whose word the sergeant believed, but whose patron he feared the most. Was this soldier brave and righteous, or was he clever?

He examined Loki head to toe. Loki returned a cold, arrogant stare, haughty posture, full of self-possession and contempt.

“Are you the one they say you are?” asked the sergeant. “Are you the Trickster?”

“Of course not, silly,” said Loki, grinning like the devil.

“We’re taking him into custody,” declared the righteous sergeant at length, his mind finally made up. “He shall meet the king’s justice. Raise the magistrate. To the fort!”

“The Cardinal shall hear of this!” protested Rochefort, as hands strong with authority pried the prisoner away from him.

“He can have it out with the king,” said the sergeant.

Loki threw one last look at the Musketeers as they loaded him onto a horse. His face showed a strange, melancholy relief. He looked exhausted.

“This is not over,” threatened Rochefort, and he left behind the soldiers.

Thor crumbled to his knees. He could stand no more. He pressed his hands on his side and touched warm blood.

His friends stood close. Thor looked up with reproach. They had much to explain.

But Thor had time for only one thought right now — the King’s warrant. Within the hour, Loki’s neck must be on the block to meet the axe.

 _I managed to spare him Rochefort’s revenge at least_ , he thought miserably to himself. What a pitiful, ashen-flavoured scrap of triumph.

 


	10. The death of the Trickster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's run out of tricks, and spirit, and luck. It's the end.

Though there were bars in the narrow window, the room they lead the Trickster to was not a prison cell. The sergeant pushed him to a stone bench attached to the wall, and forced him to sit down. He wasn’t rough so much as expedient. The place was teeming with soldiers, and too many of them were packed in the room. If they thought it was numbers that would keep the Trickster caught... No, only one thing kept Loki where they had put him: that he was much too tired, and his spirit much too low, to attempt an escape. Otherwise… Oh, he could count twelve possible scenarios, easily.

“Has the magistrate been alerted?”

“Yes, sergeant. He’s being fetched right now. He shall be here presently.”

“Very well. Lieutenant, obtain for me a copy of the pertinent edict at once. We shall have it ready for the magistrate. I believe it contains specific instructions as to how to handle this affair.”

“Indeed, it does,” said Rochefort, with sleazy satisfaction “First the axe, then the horses, to be quartered, then the pyre, and finally, his ashes scattered to the four winds at a crossroads, that he may never find his way to Paris, his resurrection on Judgement Day, or his peace.”

“You might sound more threatening if you were not sweating like a pig,” noted Loki.

Indeed, Rochefort kept patting dry his forehead and cheeks, made ruddy by his exertions, and he hardly offered a composed or dignified countenance at all, let alone a threatening one.

“I thought the Trickster was a man of the Cardinal like yourself,” observed the sergeant. “Is there no loyalty in Richelieu’s house?” He eyed Rochefort with pronounced distaste. He was a moderate, prudent man, and in spite of his trade, or perhaps because of it, he did not relish pain and death.

“This vampire knows loyalty only to himself,” spat Rochefort. “Too long has His Eminence my master entertained his wicked tricks, hugely overestimated that they are - mainly by the Trickster himself, who can always spin a good tale exaggerating the importance of his contributions and achievements. But now my master has seen reason at last. It’s time to be rid of his poisonous influence, before he turns on us as well.”

“Poor Richelieu,” sighed Loki in irony. He was leaning against the cold wall, his head resting on the stone, and his eyes were closed. “I’ve half a mind to pity the wily old rat. This fine young fellow here,” he gestured to Rochefort, “is now all he has. And what a discreet and prudent man he is, how carefully he measures his words and keeps his master’s secrets, especially in a room full of strangers! Yes, tremble, Monsieur De La Furie, tremble!”

Several muffled sniggers conveyed to Rochefort who it was that commanded the sympathies of the room, and as usual, it was not him. He was trying to come up with a comeback that would shut that snake down (for he was not without his wits, damn him, and he would prove it!) when Steve’s voice was heard.

“Sergeant, may I have a clean cloth and some hot water? The prisoner is wounded.”

“Indeed.” The compassionate sergeant gave the pertinent orders.

Rochefort again stepped in.

“Why bother fix his neck when he’s about to lose it?” he jabbed from his corner. “I’m expecting a word of thanks from the executioner, for I have saved him some work.”

“If it’s gratitude you want,” said Loki tepidly, “you’d get more thanks from everyone here if you were to save those poor attempts of yours at taunting me. As witticisms they fall flat, as intimidation they fail to make purchase, and overall they’re becoming rather tiresome. Be a lad and shut up.”

Steve spoke before Rochefort, his countenance bordering on purple with wrath and humiliation, had had time to compose a retort.

“He must be hale and well for his trial,” said the Musketeer, mostly for the sergeant’s benefit. “And we are not savages here. We can show charity even to our prisoners.”

“He’s got to you too, hasn’t he?” replied Rochefort, with a suspicious leer. Then a look of recognition. “Parbleu, I know who you are! Oh, I understand it all now! This demon here, he can achieve so much in but a few minutes, but you? He’s had you for hours! Be very wary, sergeant, this man may be in collusion with the Trickster!” he warned.

“In collusion with…?” Steve scoffed. The tip of his ears may have given away his fluster and alarm, but the chamber wasn’t well lit, and his tone of voice and expression remained those of a man in full possession of himself. He made sure to lay thick his indignation and contempt at Rochefort’s words, that the sergeant was left in no doubt as to their absurdity. “This man here,” he pointed at the Trickster, “deceived me, entrapped me, betrayed me, stole from me, and drugged me; he’s nearly ruined my career in Paris and my good name before the Queen. Believe you me, I wish the prisoner very little good. But even the foulest villains deserve justice and fair treatment in this land, under our kind Louis.”

“ _Pardieu_ , he really believes that, doesn’t he?” mocked Rochefort.

“Every single word,” said Loki. “Isn’t he adorable.” And he joined Rochefort in his mockery with a smirk, that suspicion would be well away from Steve and him. His eyes he kept closed, for he struggled to keep them open.

An orderly arrived with a steaming kettle and a few clean rags. With a furrowed brow to convey expediency, not kindness, Steve crouched by the Trickster on his bench of stone, to tend to the wound in Loki’s neck. The hot water stung; though small, it was a deep wound, but Loki made no noise. Just a whisper,

“Where’s Thor.”

But there being no conversations in the room at present, Steve feared they would be overheard.

“Quiet, Trickster,” he snapped severely. But there was nothing but tenderness in the slow drag of the wet cloth on the Trickster’s neck.

There were many tribulations on Steve’s mind. Much had happened while the two brothers had their interview. Steve had caught up the rest of the Musketeers with a quick recount of Thor and Loki’s story. Leaving out the more colourful details, he had done his utmost to impress on their comrades how far and deep their connection went, how critical it was to aid their friend Thor in this desperate hour, in spite of who the Trickster was, in spite of the King’s orders, in spite of it all. Because they loved their friend unconditionally, and trust between those four men was absolute, the Musketeers had taken Steve at his word and immediately endeavoured to lend their help as they could.

Unfortunately, there was very little time, for Rochefort was soon upon them. Tony and Banner stood up to the mercenaries and tried to lead them astray, away from Thor; Clint sounded the alarm before joining them, and Steve set off at a run for Fort Neulay, to try and raise the guard, for it was four against more than twenty, and seeing how many men had Rochefort behind his back, it was clear they would need reinforcements.

During the fight, the Musketeers were scattered, and pushed away from the tavern, while Rochefort made away with the Trickster, followed by Thor. Each fighting a number of men, Clint, Tony, and Banner lost Thor in the narrow streets, and never made it in time to back him up as he alone stood up to the bulk of Rochefort’s force.

Thor’s cries guided Steve and the guard in the night, until they were able to intercept Rochefort and his mercenaries. It was those very cries that guided too the rest of the Musketeers. And it was then that they had found Thor much weakened by the fight, bleeding profusely, and in despair over his brother. Bruce and Tony’s arm had carried him to a safe place, where Banner was doing his best to tend to his wounds, while Steve and Clint ran again behind the soldiers, and were now waiting to find out what had become of their friends.

None of this could Steve recount to the poor Trickster, whose pallor and faraway look spoke much as to the state of his spirits. He smiled weakly when Steve offered him a drink from a jug on the table, but otherwise he seemed so forlorn and extenuated, Steve’s heart ached for him.

“The magistrate has arrived,” announced one of the soldiers.

A balding, pudgy, middle-aged man entered the room, appearing harried and not quite there, still in his sleeping gown and cap, poking out from under his coat and hat. His piggy eyes were made even smaller by reason of having been roused in the middle of the night in the course of a good sleep (for he was a moral, pious man, and his conscience had no reason to keep him from resting soundly).

“Your Honour.” The sergeant stepped forward, with a copy of the king’s edict in his hand. He offered it. “I apologise for disturbing you, but the king’s instructions are quite specific.”

“Yes, yes,” mumbled the man, rubbing the bags under his eyes. “I’ve been informed on the way. The Trickster. Spy of spies. Extremely dangerous, gravest risk of evasion. Must die within the hour. And I am supposed to hear testimony as to his identity now. Who will provide it?”

“I, sir,” said Steve, stepping forward too. “And this man.” He pointed at Rochefort.

“Can you testify as to this man’s identity?” enquired the magistrate.

Rochefort showed some hesitation. Perhaps this was a chance to cause a spot of confusion with a denial, and thus gain some time that might somehow allow him to get the Trickster all to himself, and exact his vengeance in the slow and bloody manner Rochefort had longed for… But for his many failings, Rochefort was a practical man, aware of his limitations. He had no means of extracting the prisoner from the heart of Fort Neulay. There was no point in any more delays. He’d have to be content with seeing that fiend depart this world, and even if that occurred in a much swifter manner than Rochefort had desired, at least he’d finally be rid of him for good.

“Aye, sir,” said Rochefort. “This is the Trickster.”

“Very well, then,” said the magistrate. “In that case, he must die. And he’s to be… Oh, my. Beheaded, quartered, _and_ burned? How very, uh, thorough.” And for the first time, he had a proper look at the young man in the iron manacles leaning against the wall, whose lids were as heavy as his own. He was well-dressed (extremely so, the more he looked), though his clothes were rather worse for wear at this point in the night; and yet he was of a very fine, even noble appearance. He could not but think, such a waste.

Now the young man turned his stare at him, and the magistrate was met with a most extraordinary pair of green eyes, quite unreadable. The magistrate turned his gaze again to the terrible sentence in his hands, with a shudder of unease.

“The king believes he is a witch, or a demon,” explained Rochefort, perhaps sensing the Trickster’s sorcery already operating on the magistrate.

“Doesn’t seem like a witch or a demon to me,” said the magistrate, which made Loki pout with a modesty that was quite full of charm. “Then again, I have never seen any of either, I don’t think.”

“The king’s orders are clear,” said Rochefort, suddenly the staunchest defender of the crown.

“Yes, indeed,” said the magistrate. And he knew he must agree, though saddened for the terrible loss of a life, as befitted a good Christian (nothing to do with the comeliness of the prisoner, made more endearing because of his exhaustion. One felt inclined to wrap him in a thick blanket and tuck him to bed, rather than… Oh well.) “And within the hour, indeed?” said the magistrate, appalled, when he read again the next line. “Can’t it wait until the morn?” (Who conducts executions in the dead of night? How barbaric!)

“It’s on account of his history of miraculous escapes, Your Honour,” explained the sergeant. “The sooner the better.”

“I see,” sighed the magistrate. “Well, there is nothing to it, then. It shall be as the king wants. Sorry, lad.” And he beheld Loki with true regret. “Find me the executioner, then. Buchard, is it?”

“Aye sir.”

“Very well then, if that is all for now, I shall show myself to the kitchens. Hopefully someone can be roused to provide me with some soup or a tonic?”

“Indeed. Lieutenant, please, see to the magistrate’s comfort.

“Yes, sir. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, your Honour.”

 

Steve and Clint exchanged sly looks, and Steve approached the sergeant.

“Sergeant, may we have a moment with the prisoner?”

“A moment?”

“We are here on a business of the Queen,” muttered Steve, to impress on the sergeant the confidential nature of his words. “This man still has in his possession some items we would see recovered. Perhaps he can be persuaded to talk.”

Rochefort had been listening keenly.

“Beware, sergeant! They might be up to something!”

“It wasn’t me who snatched the prisoner from the custody of a Royal Musketeer and was making away with him in the night!” protested Steve. “Who’s in cahoots with whom, here?”

“The Trickster has a way of earning the most unexpected loyalties!” insisted Rochefort. “And his schemes are never obvious! Do not trust them!”

Steve addressed a complicit eye to the sergeant. The man despised Rochefort, that much was clear, but he was also fair and prudent.

“It will be but a moment,” insisted Steve. “I doubt we’ll get much from him, but for our mistress, we must try.”

“Very well, then. But only a moment,” agreed the sergeant.

“One more thing,” said Steve. “This is a very delicate matter, of the utmost secrecy. We would have some privacy.”

“Understood. Gentlemen, abandon the room.”

“I shall not!” declared Rochefort. “This might be a ploy to help him escape!”

“Listen to yourself, good man,” said Steve. “It was me who roused the guard and led them to the Trickster to have him apprehended! Why on earth would I try to help him escape now?”

The sergeant pondered his options. He probably had a healthy fear of Richelieu, and that is why he came up with this suggestion:

“I shall stay in the room during the questioning.”

“By yourself?” enquired Rochefort, his eyes squinting in suspicion. “Are you in on it too?”

Steve rolled his eyes visibly, Clint huffed part in amusement, part in dismay.

“And two more men chosen at random!” sighed the sergeant, much put upon. “My, but aren’t you tedious!”

Loki snickered.

“Now depart, my good man. Leave these men to their business, or I shall have you removed, I swear.”

With one last glare of spite, Rochefort conceded and left.

 

“Trickster,” said Steve, with coldness, for the benefit of the sergeant.

“Yes, my sweet?” drawled the Trickster, with a yawn. “Pardon me.”

“The things you stole, where are they?”

“What’s in it for me if I tell you?”

Steve hesitated, for indeed he had no way to answer that convincingly, nothing left to offer, even as a charade.

“The safety of France,” he said.

Loki scoffed, and yawned again.

“It’s your last chance, dammit,” said Steve.

“Or what.”

“You fiend,” hissed Clint, taking a menacing step towards the Trickster. A reasonably good performance, judged Loki, should do the trick.

“I shall make you a deal,” said Loki. “Do me one last service, and I shall tell you all.”

“A service? Why should we help you?”

The Trickster smirked. Oh, Steve was getting better at this by the second.

“Because it’s not for me,” said the Trickster. “It’s for a kind soul who deserves your charity. Once that service is done, I might tell you what you ask. Please, if you call yourself a Christian.” Loki underlined his begging with a pointed stare.

Steve and Clint exchanged a look. Clint, a keener reader of men and schemes than Steve, green yet, must have smelled something. He urged Steve with a minute nod.

Steve approached the Trickster.

“There is a maid at _Du Moureau et du Maquereau_ ,” said the Trickster. “Her name is Sijean. She’s a sweet and loyal girl, and she loves me well. Since I shall never see her again, please convey my affection to her, and my gratitude. Give her this handkerchief, that she’ll remember me with kindness, and tell her these words: that she is now free to give her heart again.”

“What? A maid?” Steve’s confusion was as genuine as can be. “What are you…?”

“Please, Musketeer,” beseeched the Trickster, and in her expression was a strong, silent imperative, not a beggar’s supplication. “For the love of God.”

Steve turned to consult Clint, who again showed himself more adept at the codes of this kind of intrigue. He picked up the handkerchief.

“Bless you, good man,” said the Trickster, and rested his head back against the wall again, and closed his eyes. “That is all I have to tell you for now.”

“Thank you, sergeant,” said Clint, “that will be all.”

Both Musketeers exited the room. Avoiding Rochefort’s eyes and ears, they found a quiet corner to discuss the affair.

The handkerchief was an exquisite piece of fine linen, trimmed with exquisite lace of Cluny, embroidered with a _fleur de Lys_ entwined with a snake. The Musketeers shared a look.

“What do you think?” asked Steve.

“A token, previously agreed with the maid, indicating whom she is to release the parcels to. The Trickster’s words might be a code.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nothing else makes sense,” said Clint. “In any case, even if it should come to nothing, we ought to make sure.”

“You go, my friend,” urged Steve.

“Me?”

“Yes. If it is what we think it is, then burn the letters at once, and take the buttons to Paris.”

“But, De La Furie is expecting you…”

“And so are Rochefort’s men, if he’s set any at the gates. You’re the swiftest rider too. And besides, I don’t deserve any merit or glory that may come from the happy resolution of this affair, if we should manage to make it so. Not when because of my stupidity we’ve been so close to disaster.”

“You have shown great resourcefulness and courage, my friend,” said Clint. “Your mistakes are due to youthfulness and inexperience, but your successes are entirely due to talent and heart. De La Furie will be impressed, the queen pleased, and the king proud.”

“Thank you, my friend. Perhaps it is so. But no matter what, my business here is not yet concluded. I need to see it through.”

Clint clasped his wrist in a sign of camaraderie.

“I shall leave then.”

“Good luck, my friend.”

“And you. Farewell.”

 

Steve returned to the cell to find the Trickster sagging against the wall, utterly exhausted. Time was flying by. The executioner would be here any moment now. What to do?  Where were their friends?

 

Some moments later, Steve beheld with a sigh of relief the welcome face of their friend Tony. It donned a luminous, slightly mischievous smile Steve judged entirely out of place, given the circumstances. This man loved his job much too much.

“Tony! Where were you!” he reproached him, in a muffled whisper.

“I volunteered to help find Buchard, the executioner,” smirked Tony, a playful glint in his eyes. “We’ve been in a few taverns.”

Steve gasped in horror.

“You went drinking? Is that why look so cheerful?”

Tony snickered foolishly and dragged Steve away by the elbow. He retained the smile and the merry-maker’s act as he muttered in confidence to Steve. He was leading him down the hall, away from the Trickster, and Steve was resisting, but Tony needed to escape any prying ears, and make some preparations…

“I’ve made a new friend tonight,” mumbled Tony. “But come, I have a plan…”

 

 

___oOo___

 

 

The Trickster in his cell, on the cold hard bench made of stone, had his exhaustion to thank for his state of serenity. He realised how desperate the situation was, and though he was no stranger to tight spots, he knew he had never faced one that was so utterly hopeless. He was simply too tired, in body and soul, to fight on.

“Sergeant,” he spoke.

“What is it, prisoner.”

“May I sleep?”

The sergeant’s bushy brows drew together, part in confusion, part in suspicion.

“We shan’t uncuff you,” he said.

“I did not request it,” said Loki tiredly. “You chain me to the wall if you wish. I just ask to be allowed to lie down, and be left undisturbed for some time.”

“Oh, by all means!” mocked Rochefort. “Take him to a nice bed with lots of pillows and a feather mattress, why don’t you! Tuck him in, put out the candles, and walk out quietly!”

“The bench will do,” said Loki to the sergeant.

The sergeant appraised the slumped, sagging figure of the Trickster, his sallow complexion, the dullness of his eyes.

“I suppose we can grant you that,” he said.

Loki nodded heavily. “Bless you, sergeant.”

And he began to let himself fall to the side. After a moment of hesitation, the sergeant stepped forward, and offered his very cloak as bedding, which he stretched over the hard rock.

Loki smiled weakly.

“Such kindness,” he muttered.

His charm was greater compounded by his state of drowsiness, softening his usually sharp edges into something more approachable, and rather endearing. He seemed younger, childish even, and ever so vulnerable. The sergeant busied himself to find him a blanket too, which made Rochefort huff in exasperation ( _He seduces everyone, this incubus!_ ). Loki heard it, though he was very nearly asleep by then, and as the sergeant tucked him in, he couldn’t help but smile.

 

___oOo___

 

“You! Get up! It’s time!”

The harsh words and violent jostling shook Loki awake whether he liked it or not. He attempted to open his eyes, but he was blinded by a most cruel beam of sunlight. The morn, already? How long had he slept?

When he was able to see, he sought among the crowd that surrounded him, but couldn’t make out one familiar face hard as he tried. Where was the kind sergeant from yesterday? Where was Steve? And where was Thor?

He was most confused and out of step. Perhaps that nap had been a bad idea. In a rush and a jumble, he was led to what could only be the town hall, escorted by eight men, with manacles and shackles and a bloody _collar_ , for Christ’s sakes, all joined together by lengths of chain. Who did they think he was, that needed to be secured in this manner? In spite of the weight of all that iron, he held his head high and his back straight, for they might chain him like a beast, but who says a beast can’t keep its pride.

The magistrate looked much more dignified today upon his curule chair. He was reading a list of Loki’s crimes. Goodness, the roll was four feet long. Such a villain France had never known, Loki thought - not without some smugness, for more than anything else, it was mediocrity he despised.

On and on the magistrate went, listing Loki’s evil deeds, his voice a meaningless drone. By god, how long would this torment last? For mercy’s sake, since I’m for the axe, just swing it.

Though he tried to feign disinterest and detachment, Loki was by no means as collected as he seemed. How strange, he was thinking, for a man who had courted death all his life and summoned it, that he should be caught so pitifully unprepared when it finally came.

He had been ready the day before, and the day before that, and every day up to yesternight. He had realised very early on that his was not to be a long life, and had made his peace with it. He had let his conscience lie, because he had never expected to see heaven anyway. Idly he wondered if the poet was right, and there were many levels of Hell, each designed to punish a specific type of sinner; how would Loki be made to suffer the punishment for his so numerous and so varied sins? He either would have to be moved around a lot (and what a picture, a cohort of demons carting his wretched soul up and down the twisted roads of Satan’s realm), or perhaps cut down in pieces and scattered all over the place, let his arms suffer for his greed, his guts for his hatred, his tongue for his lust, et cetera. _I suppose you shall find out soon enough, old boy,_ he thought _._

With his days numbered, and his soul forfeited, there was nothing he could not do, nothing he didn’t dare. That is how he could pull out feats nobody else could, because he dived in and saved nothing for the swim back. Such wits and ill-gotten skills, added to his death-wish, and paired with his miraculous instinct for survival? Of course he had become the Cardinal’s most valuable and dreaded asset. And perhaps because his tricks amused the Devil, even in his most desperate hours, Loki always caught a break and found himself safely back on shore, though not particularly grateful for his luck. But he was no fool, and he was not one to expect constancy from the Devil. When He grew bored, Loki’s luck would run out, and that was just fine with him. With his heart, empty and scorched to a cinder, as it had been for so long, the Trickster had never given a toss whether he lived or died.

Until tonight. Seeing Thor again had been simultaneously the sweetest and the most painful moment of his life: feeling his heart reborn, and beating, and burning again, to feel alive, only to have it shattered into one thousand pieces again a moment after. And those pieces remained now in his chest, stabbing it like shards of glass, each shred of flesh able to feel the ache of an entire heart.

Loki heard his name and raised his eyes. With profound relief, he realised that the legal palaver had ended.

“How does the defendant plead?” said the magistrate.

“Does it matter?” said Loki, with a sigh of sheer boredom.

“In the name of the crown, I sentence you to die.”

“Well, I never,” he deadpanned.

“Take him away.”

They walked him along the hall, crowded with awed-looking peasants, gathered to see the witch who could turn into a woman or a beast, or vanish into thin air, at will; and if not some prodigious magical transformation, a beheading would do them just fine. They crossed themselves as the condemned man walked past.

Loki set a mask of contempt over his surging terror. His long stride thwarted by the shackles, he put all his concentration on not losing his footing. He wished to remain dignified.

He thought he saw… He looked, but no. If there had been a mane of gold and a pair of deep blue eyes amid the plain, ruddy faces, they were no more.

 _Don’t ask me that_ , Thor had begged, and Loki supposed it was quite a great deal to expect from anybody, to stand by while the one you love meets the axe. And still, Loki had hoped. Because it would be just like Thor, wouldn’t it? To go above and beyond, all for his wretched brother.

How absurd: although until last week Loki had believed he would never see his brother again, it saddened him now to know that he would not live to see that golden hair turn silver with age, that flesh he had loved so much toughen up and dry out as years and sun and adventures sapped the suppleness of youth out of it, leaving behind more bone and less muscle, aching joints and weaker lungs, and so many beloved crinkles and scars for an old lover to read an entire life on his body at night, by touch alone. With a deep pang, Loki yearned for what could never have been — Thor’s dream, a life together in the golden fields of Asgard. He wondered, as they grew old, would they still have held hands as they walked through the hay? Would they still have lain on their backs under the sway of ripe wheat, watching the clouds roll by, and then complained about their pains and aches as they helped each other up? Would they still have shared a stolen kiss or two after filling their bellies with berries and grapes, their lips sticky with a whole summer’s worth of sun and sugar? And would love still brighten up Thor’s eyes, once bluer than the clearest sky in the peak of summer, when they were watered down and sunk in wrinkled skin, weathered by many seasons? — It was not such a bad dream, brother. Worth dying for, perhaps. Loki saw now, only as he walked towards his doom.

 

The block. It stood on a scaffold, in a field just outside the edges of the village. It was on top of a knoll, that the attendants would all have a good view. And there, to the side, the pyre where he was to be cremated, after being torn to pieces by four horses at a run. He felt faint, blackness engulfing his vision, yet he tried to hold himself up. Think of the audience. Still he staggered, and feared he had lost his footing altogether, when he felt a strong arm holding him up. Steve! Oh Steve, bless you! Loki leaned in for but a second, so relieved for that instant of support and the sight of that kind, beautiful face. Steve did not speak, but his arm led him surely and safely up the dreaded steps.

Loki stood by the block, beholding the crowd that had amassed to watch him die. He thought he recognised among them the faces of those he had killed. Terror was indeed clouding his mind. But he addressed those ghosts that had come to gloat. _It was you or me,_ he told them, because damn if he was going to reward them with any scruples now. _See you all in hell_.

He wasn’t surprised when the torque around his neck was removed, for it would have impeded the job of the axe. But then his shackles were taken off too, and his manacles. The executioner, a broad, intimidating brick wall of a man, his face hidden under a black hood, bound Loki’s wrists behind his back. Had Loki been in the mood, he would have taunted him over that knot. Such poor work! Loki could get himself free with a couple of pulls. Well, he supposed it was more a gesture, for there was no passing through the throng of spectators surrounding the block, and if Loki ever did, he would surely not be able to outrun them all.

The rough hands of the executioner unlaced the collar of Loki’s shirt and pulled it open, exposing his neck and shoulders, for a clean cut. Then he forced Loki to kneel down. It was a very strong arm indeed. Very well, then, thought Loki, this should take but a moment.

Without prompting, he rested his neck on the block. The noise had ceased around him. His stomach heaved, and he closed his eyes. Be quick, for the love of God, prayed Loki, fearing he might be sick, or foul himself, or both. Spare me the indignity at least, do it already…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of the axe and shut his eyes. Then, a name.

“Loki.” A gruff, deep voice he knew well, just there, above his head. The light hit the slit in the executioner’s hood, and Loki saw the bluest pair of eyes, as deep as a clear sky at the peak of summer. Then, a wink, and the hood came off.

“One for all!” cried Thor.

“And all for one!” replied several voices among the crowd.

Thor’s mighty hand closed around Loki’s arm and forcibly pulled him up on his feet. He stepped in front of Loki to shield him from attack, wielding the axe and his sword, which he had retrieved from under his disguise. Loki praised his brother’s good sense when the knots around his wrists  fell apart quickly and easily.

Meanwhile, amidst the confusion, the other musketeers had managed to clear their way and climb to the scaffold, surrounding Loki, trapping him between their bodies and swords.

The soldiers were rallying around them. The situation for those on the scaffold would have been quite desperate, had it not been for the villagers, men, women, and children, scrambling all over themselves, creating an awful confusion, and effectively shielding the Musketeers and Loki from a full-on attack.

“You could at least furnish me with a weapon, something…!” he grumbled, after Thor’s axe had fallen at the last second to thwart the deadly thrust of a soldier’s pike with Loki’s name at its very sharp tip.

“And I thought you could trick your way out of any tight spot!” laughed his brother as he fought.

“Well, I have, haven’t I?” said Loki.

“And what do you call this?” said Thor.

“I’m bloody thinking!” snapped Loki.

There was a shout and a cry, and a thundering of hooves on the soft earth. It was Steve, who had gained the block on a big horse. He dismounted and handed the reigns to Thor, before joining in the fight.

“Loki!” called Thor, climbing up on the animal’s back, and offering him a hand to climb after.

The horse reared on its hinds with a piercing neigh, nervous with the clanking of pikes and swords all around it, scattering those in its way. Thor spurred it, and it jumped off and lurched at a gallop. They fled down the dusty road at full speed.

“My friends will stay behind and delay the guard until our trail is lost!” called Thor over his shoulder. “They shall expect us with fresh horses at the rendez-vouz point, once they have shaken their pursuers off!”

“This is absurd!” cried Loki. “This is the most ridiculous plan I’ve ever heard! Your friends will never escape alive! And there is no way we can outrun the whole of Fort Neulay!”

“Have more faith, brother!” laughed Thor, jolly, with that very same grin that had got them into so much trouble as children.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going anyway?”

“Asgard!”

“This is madness! We shall never make it!”

“Then we won’t!” said Thor.

Loki was rendered speechless.

“How do you know I won’t stab you in the back at the first sign of trouble, empty your pockets, and leave you behind as a distraction?”

“I don’t!” said Thor, still beaming.

“You’d be a fool to trust me,” warned Loki.

“I know,” smiled Thor, his eyes warm, and he turned his head to kiss him.

Loki latched onto his brother’s waist with all his might, conscious of how very undeserving he was to have it back. He closed his eyes for a moment, and had a glimpse of golden hair turning silver, and kisses sticky with the juice of berries and grapes, and eyes bluer than the clearest sky at the peak of summer watered down by many years.

If it all ends tomorrow, he thought, it will still have been worth it. This day, this one hour of happiness, on horseback at a mad gallop with his brother, riding to freedom and hope.

 

___oOo___

 

“We can’t find him,” said a voice.

“What do you mean, you can’t find him?”

“I mean we have searched the city, your Honour, and we haven’t found him.”

Loki opened his eyes, confused. It was dark, and cold, and his bones ached. He was lying on a stone bench, with a sergeant’s cloak for makeshift linens, and manacles biting cruelly into his wrists. And he had been dreaming. Waking up had never felt so cruel. He lay unmoving, attempting to stem a flood of tears.

The bustle outside was growing. More voices joined in. There were several men in the room — the pudgy magistrate, the kind sergeant, a few foot soldiers, Rochefort, and Steve.

“Have you asked his wife?” asked the magistrate, looking harried.

“Yes, sir, and his mistress, and his mother.”

“What about the taverns, then?”

“Nothing.”

Well, find someone else, then!” urged Rochefort. “How difficult can it be? I’ll do it myself, if you have no stomach!”

“We shall not have that,” intervened the sergeant. “We shan’t have anyone but an experienced professional!”

“Oh, scruples now, eh?” mocked Rochefort.

Steve addressed the magistrate now, most solemnly.

“Sir, I must concur with the sergeant. I don’t know if you’ve seen a botched axe job, but I have,” he said. “Trust me, sir, you do not want this on your conscience.”

“What conscience! He’s vermin!” insisted Rochefort.

Steve proceeded, “Three, four blows, and the condemned man is still… It’s awfully messy.”

“My word,” gasped the magistrate, a bit green. “But, the king’s orders…”

“Monsieur, if I may,” said Steve respectfully. “Why not hang him first? Then the axe. It won’t matter how many blows it takes then.”

“This fiend is a cold-blooded murderer!” said Rochefort, a bony finger pointed at Loki. “The axe is too good for him! He deserves to be quartered and gutted alive, not all these soft considerations!”

“A murderer he may be, but not a torturer,” objected Steve. “Besides, it’s not about making it more pleasant for him, but less unsavoury for us.”

“The king’s orders say nothing about hanging!” protested Rochefort. “They’re very clear and specific, and-”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Steve. “It is specified that he must be beheaded, quartered, and burned. It doesn’t say anywhere that he can’t be hanged first!”

“I say burn him first, if the axe suits your stomach ill!” cried Rochefort.

The magistrate ignored him.

“Even hanging has its own difficulties,” he objected, to Steve.

“Yes, but if the prisoner is well tied up, and muzzled… Well, it’s certainly less of a mess.”

“Your Honour, they’re up to something, I can smell it!” cried Rochefort.

“Oh, do shut up, my good man, you’re giving me a headache!” sighed the magistrate, rubbing his brow. “And we’re running so late already…”

“The one-hour limit, I’m sure, is only to impress the utmost need for urgency and expediency, due to the Trickster’s previous evasions,” said Steve softly. “I will make sure to speak for you at court, as to your efforts to conduct this business thoroughly, and according to the law. Surely the king will not object to adding the noose to the process, as long as the Trickster ends up in ashes. And you may rest easy, that you did your best.”

Again, the magistrate sighed.

“Oh, very well, then. I suppose we can hang him first, then chop off his head. Give the orders, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

The magistrate turned to Loki, who had sat upright, and had listened to the entire exchange with a pose of amused detachment.

“May God have mercy upon your soul, young man,” he said.

“And yours, your Honour,” said Loki, grinning.

The magistrate left, with Rochefort at his tails.

“I tell you, sir, they’re up to something!” he was baying.

“Oh, stop hounding me already!” the magistrate was groaning.

And if Rochefort continued his entreaties, they were lost in the general noise of activity as the fort rose to prepare the gallows.

Steve approached. He looked slyly over his shoulder. The sergeant and four other men were still in the room, and several more soldiers without.

“Thanks a lot,” grumbled Loki sarcastically.

“Shush,” said Steve. With his back to Loki, he poured him a glass of water from a jug.

“Where’s Thor?” asked Loki. Suddenly, a cold shudder pierced through him. “He’s not…” He choked. “Oh, God, Steve! Is he…?”

“He’s with Banner,” whispered Steve. “Hush, we don’t have much time. Drink.”

Loki looked at the cup. Not water.

“Wine? Are we celebrating?” he jested. “Well, I suppose I might as well not die with a dry throat. Might make the noose stick, God forbid.” He drained the cup.

Steve held his arm, gave it a comforting squeeze.

“Loki,” he said, and his eyes stared intently. “Don’t struggle.”

“Can’t your constitution endure a little hanging?” he mocked. “Well, don’t look, then!”

“Loki,” insisted Steve, with another squeeze, and a small nod.

What was he trying to say? Dare Loki hope?

“It’s all prepared. Bring the prisoner.”

Loki shuddered.

“Steve,” he said. He worked the gold ring with its chipped stone off his finger. “Please. For Thor.”

Steve hesitated.

“What is it, Musketeer? Hurry up!” urged one of the soldiers.

“Please, _mon cher_ ,” begged Loki.

Steve nodded, secreting the ring in the pocket of his sleeve, and helped Loki to his feet, his arm strong, holding him up.

“Courage,” he whispered.

The walk to the yard seemed to last for hours. Loki’s head felt light, and his vision unclear. He was still exhausted, and he’d had nothing in his stomach for hours, except for that glass of wine. And of course, there was the small business of his imminent death, which could not be helping his overall condition. He’d thought terror would wake him up a little, but the more he walked, the more tired he felt. Perhaps he would be dead on his feet from sheer extenuation before he even made it to the gallows. Perhaps when they opened the trap, he’d be fast asleep, and never notice a thing.

It was very dark out in the yard, the torches seemed to cast more shadows than light. There weren’t many men come to see him die. There was no enraged populace screaming abuse and throwing rotten cabbages. At least that, because Loki had quite a headache, and could really do without the unnecessary racket.

He ascended the steps, and was met with a familiar face on the scaffold: Tony Stark, _with a smile_ . He didn’t say anything, and neither did Loki, his throat dry again in spite of Steve’s drink. Stark bound his wrists, and his arms, _and_ his waist, _and_ his legs, _and_ his ankles… He took his time too, his hands poking and groping everywhere, even under Loki’s clothes. What on earth…?

“Are you quite done yet?” said Loki, sarcastic, Starks hands at present feeling between his legs.

“Not even close,” joked Tony, and he winked at him.

Loki gasped. “I can’t bloody believe you would flirt on the bloody scaffold!”

“Might be my last chance,” grinned Tony. “Open.”

“Really?” sighed Loki, looking at the ball of fabric Stark intended to stuff in his mouth. “Am I expected to scream with a noose around my neck?”

Tony winked again, and he seemed so entirely untroubled, it gave Loki pause. He opened his mouth, and Tony gently pushed the fabric inside, and secured it with a gag. Just before he put the black cap on Loki, another wink, and another smile.

“Don’t struggle,” he whispered.

Then everything went black, and Loki felt the noose around his neck. His heart was beating madly, as if it sensed it was the last chance it would ever get. All Loki could hear was his own breathing, rushed and shuddering. The silence in the yard was deafening.

Surely, if they had a plan, it needed to kick up _now_. Now, goddammit, or else...

There was a crack, and Loki fell. A quick swoop, the vacuum in his stomach. And the snap. Loki screamed into his muffle when both his arms seemed to be torn out of their sockets.

Oh, _mors tous les anges,_ his neck had not broken. This was going to take some time. And it bloody _hurt_ . He twisted and squirmed in agony, but Stark had bound him like a piece of cured meat, and he was barely moving. And in the meantime, the rope around his neck was digging into his throat, but not deep enough. Damn, not long, this was going to take _forever_.

Except he was so tired. _He fell asleep at his own execution -_ the imaginary obituary was the last thing that crossed his mind, as blackness began to rise around him, enfolding him.

A voice then.

“Cut him down.”

 _Wait_ , cried Loki inside his own head, _wait! I’m not dead yet! I’m not dead yet!_ But he could not move a muscle, could not even blink.

Another dead drop, this time he hit the cold ground.

“Take the prisoner to the block.”

_I’m not dead yet…_

Or perhaps he was. He passed out.

  


___oOo___

  


Loki groaned miserably, jostled and shaken, his arms throbbing, his head feeling as if speared with a red-hot poker. Wasn’t death suppose to bring sweet relief? Can a corpse suffer so horribly? He groaned again, and squirmed to shift his weight.

“Be still, Loki,” said a voice in the dark, very close. “Your shoulders are hurt. You need to be still.”

He tried to speak. Nothing came out but a hoarse whimper.

“Here, drink. Slowly.”

A waterskin was pressed to his lips.

“Just a sip. Your throat was injured in the drop.”

Loki opened his eyes, and he knew he must be dreaming. _Thor_ , he mouthed.

His brother’s face in the starlight, smiling down at him. Those strong arms embracing him.

Loki gaped and mouthed and had so many questions and no voice and too bad a headache and so much confusion.

“My darling, my sweet…” whispered Thor, covering him in kisses. “We’re safe, brother. We’re free!”

Loki shook his head. He mouthed _Richelieu!_ and he immediately burst out into a cough, stabbing at him from the inside. Thor gave him another sip to drink.

“We’re free, Loki,” insisted Thor. “Rochefort thinks you dead!”

 _How?,_ mouthed Loki.

“A struck of luck! Tony found the executioner, Buchard, before anyone else. The man was awfully drunk, and Tony had a plan. He’s skilled at knots, you see? He had had an idea. For a piece of silver, the tavern’s landlord agreed to keep the wine coming on Buchard, put him up for the night, and never utter a word as to his whereabouts. When Buchard could not be found, Steve skillfully planted in the magistrate’s brain to have you hanged first. He’d been speaking to the poor man for some time, he knew him to be squeamish and delicate. A few chosen words about messy axe jobs, and the man was sold. Tony charmed his way to the scaffold, playing up the duty of the loyal Musketeer who needed to make sure the King’s orders were carried out properly. He bound you so that your arms and legs endured the worst of the drop, not your spine, that your neck would not be broken. Before you went to the scaffold, Steve gave you to drink your own drug, that you would pass out quickly, not struggle long, and seem dead to anyone looking. And though Tony was confident, and showed no doubts as to his abilities with the ropes, I swear I have never prayed harder in my life. But he did as he promised, and though you hanged, you survived!

“The magistrate and Rochefort and the entire fort saw you dangle there, unmoving, and you were cut down. Your body fell through the trap, were Banner concealed you under the cover of the double darkness, and quickly took your blood-stained collar, and put it around the neck of one of Rochefort’s mercenaries that was felled in our earlier squabble, which Tony had prepared earlier with the same knots he had bound you in. He was slender and pale and black haired, and in the night, he might pass. Thus, we swapped the bodies, and they took the poor devil to be beheaded on the block. We knew it was a long shot. We thought the scheme would be discovered then, that nobody would be fooled for long. We counted only on gaining a few moments… But guess what! The magistrate didn’t ask for the hood to be removed from the corpse before the axing, and Rochefort, that oaf, never asked to see the body up close! He demanded some of the things the soldiers had taken from your pockets when they first searched you, and he didn’t even wait to see the pyre lit up! He’s gone to Paris to tell Richelieu that you are dead! Do you understand what I am saying, brother? They think the Trickster dead! You are free!”

Loki let his head fall back, unable yet to take it all in. Was he still dreaming? For so long he had carried the yoke of Richelieu’s eye, for so long had he felt a prisoner. The doors of the cage were open, and he had somehow managed to walk out of them in his sleep.

For the first time he saw the sky above, a starry vault that already faded in the east. They were in some sort of open chariot. By the smell, a hay cart or some such. He would have snorted, if his throat wasn’t so sore. It would appear that the Trickster had managed to trick death itself this time, though hardly in style.

He turned to his brother. He could barely make out that beloved face in the dark, but he saw enough to kiss him.

“You?”, he rasped out, gently touching his brother’s wounded side.

“I shall recover,” said Thor.

“Where are we going?”

“Asgard. We shall rest there, where nobody is looking for us, and tend to our injuries in peace, until we’re both whole and hale again. And then, when we’re ready, the world is ours.”

“How do you know I won’t stab you in the back?” croaked Loki, though it hurt.

“When you stab me, then I’ll know,” whispered his brother in turn.

“Fool.”

Thor kissed him.

“Now, rest,” he said.

Loki sighed in his brother’s arms, and slept.

 

The dusk was already setting when Loki woke up again. They had stopped, and there were voices. Thor was not beside him. Loki pulled himself up as he could. In the horizon, hazy with the early night fogs, he could see Paris. Thor, Steve, Banner, and Tony stood by the cart, speaking quietly.

“Why have we stopped?” choked Loki out, still painfully hoarse.

Thor turned, and hurried to his side.

“Good morning, brother,” he jested, as he offered him the waterskin to drink.

The water washed down some of the sand in Loki’s throat, though it still ached acutely.

“Here is where our ways must part,” said Steve. “Tony and I are to head for Paris on foot, join Clint, report to De La Furie, and do our best to ensure this affair ends well, that the Queen and the peace with England are safe. You, Thor, and Banner, will carry on south.”

Loki had another sip.

“Steve,” he croaked.

Steve approached, that Loki would not need to strain his voice. But Loki had no words for him at first. He held Steve’s hands, and kissed them. Steve blushed most comely, as he was wont to do, and nervously glimpsed at Thor, who had stepped a few paces back, and had averted his eyes, so as not to intrude.

“You could have bloody told me what you were planning,” reproached Loki, with what little voice he had.

“I tricked you,” smirked Steve. “Now we’re even.”

Loki smiled warmly.

“It’s been a strange privilege, Trickster,” said Steve.

“Loki,” corrected he.

“Milady,” said Steve fervently, and it was him kissing Loki’s hands now.

“Your friend in Flanders,” said Loki, with an intent stare. “Now you know.”

Steve nodded, and Loki kissed his forehead.

“Oh!” said Steve. “I almost forgot.” He produced the chipped sapphire ring from his secret pocket.

Loki took it.

“Thank you,” he said. “For everything.” And though he could hardly express the intensity of his emotion with his words, he did so with his eyes.

Steve nodded again.

 

Tony too kissed Loki’s hand, with a bow, and much ceremony.

“I suppose you must hate me for what I did to your arms,” he said, “but perhaps you’ll like me a bit better once they’ve recovered.”

Loki smirked, and beckoned him closer to whisper.

“One day you must tell me where you learned those magic knots.” He winked.

Tony beamed.

“Anytime, Tricks.” He winked in turn.

 

The Musketeers then embraced each other.

“Until we meet again,” said Tony to Thor. “Paris will be unbearably dull without you.”

“You haven’t seen the last of me, my friend,” replied Thor, with a hearty hug.

 

Thor and Steve stood face to face, and clasped each other’s wrists strongly, their eyes intent.

“My friend,” said Thor with some effort, for emotion was thickening his voice.

Steve wrapped his arms around him.

“Until we meet again,” he said.

 

A quick embrace and a pat to the back was enough with Banner, who was returning to Paris soon.

 

Steve and Tony started to walk towards the city, Banner took the driver’s seat, and Thor climbed to the back of the hay cart, next to his brother. They lurched forward, and ambled at an old horse’s pace towards the south.

Loki watched Steve and Tony become smaller and hazier in the twilight, until he felt dizzy and needed to lie down, weak still from the recent upheaval. He settled into his brother’s arms.

Loki was leaving for good the city he had hated and loved for all those years, that cesspool of dark interests, intrigues, and betrayals, which he had learned to navigate like very few. He couldn’t believe he had escaped it with his life, and mostly unharmed.

He didn’t believe he would never see it again. Goodness, he was coming to the realization that he would bloody miss it!

“I’m thinking that De La Furie might grow complacent now, without the Trickster around to keep him on his toes,” mused Banner then. “Richelieu will surely try to take advantage of that.”

That made Loki smirk, and think.

“The Trickster was trouble when he was alive,” he whispered. “Imagine the kind of mischief he could cause as a spook story, or a shadow, or a ghost.”

“We haven’t even lost sight of Paris yet, and you’re already getting the country jitters?” mocked Thor.

“I’m a city boy,” said Loki, and when he tried to shrug, his recovering dislocated shoulders made him cringe in pain.

His brother held him to his chest carefully.

“Let us not rush tomorrow, brother,” he whispered, and kissed Loki’s head. “Let us live today.”

Loki burrowed into the welcoming warmth of his brother.

“You know, for such a harebrained fool, sometimes you don’t speak utter nonsense,” he whispered. “Maybe you are a little bit right. This once.”

Thor laughed warmly, and it was the most pleasant sound Loki had heard in a very, very long time. And if Thor’s next embrace was too tight, Loki never said a word in protest. He clenched his jaw, and let himself feel that too. It was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobbing all over the place* omg I finished another. 
> 
>  
> 
> I suppose I've written a pseudo-historical action and adventure novel?? (ticks box) Well, that was fun.
> 
> Thanks for the loyal following and the huge encouragement. This is one of my least popular stories, but it has some pretty awesome hardcore fans, bless you!
> 
>  
> 
> OH, this: I haven't done any research, but I have an inkling they didn't have actual scaffolds with trap doors in the XVII century. But you know, just... Go with it, maybe?
> 
>  
> 
> PS. Yo, what say you, does this need a smutty epilogue, or what?


	11. A soft epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smutty epilogue, as promised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I sort of made a bet with myself. Would I be able to do porn in a Dumas-esque style, and make it hot? Well, I took an old porn novel called Fanny Hill, plundered a few expressions, blended them with my own, and there you go, an attempt was made. I hope you enjoy.

The way to Asgard was rugged, rock-bound, and much too long. When Loki could not suffer anymore seeing his brother wincing in pain from being jostled and jolted on the hard wood boards of the hay cart, he had Banner take a detour to a village. There Loki purloined a horse and made a dash for one of his caches of money and clothes. Dressed as an elegant lady, Loki was able to purchase a more comfortable coach and a better horse, which would provide speed, and new sets of clothes for Banner and Thor, to replace their torn and bloodied attires. They carried on southwards posing as an infirm well-to-do country esquire and his wife, traveling with their valet. 

In spite of the increased comfort and protection from the elements which the coach provided, the road remained as potholed and rocky as it had been before, and France stretched long before them, the golden south taunting them, still miles and miles away, while they slowly waded through the cold, damp, and muddy north. 

Thor’s condition was worsening. With ever rising distress, Loki appraised his pallor, the glaze of a fever in his eyes, his chills and shakes. At nights, they would stop an inn and sit together silently with Bruce, neither daring to speak their fears. 

One night they did; they had to, Thor’s state was deteriorating before their very eyes. They found they were both torn between pressing on at greater speed, that they could gain the refuge of a true house, and provide Thor with the tranquility and rest he needed, or stay at a post or an inn until he was recovered, at the risk that…

“Asgard,” came Thor’s husky groan from his bed. “I want to go to Asgard.”

He had heard them muttering together as they assessed the options, and now Banner and Loki traded a quiet look.

“But you are getting weaker and weaker by the day,” argued Loki softly. “Rest is what you need. We should not continue.”

“Take me home, Loki,” insisted Thor.

A cold chill settled in Loki’s bones.  _ Home to die _ , he thought, wringing his hands. Banner looked glum, the same thought perhaps in his own mind.

Selfishly, Loki was about to press to stay put, call for the better physician in the county, and remain where they were until Thor was fit to travel. On the other hand… He looked at the pearls of cold sweat on his brother’s brow, his sallow complexion, the permanent tension in his shoulders from enduring the pain that never eased. If the infection was already settled in, if it was in his blood… Perhaps that’s what they had to do — try to make it to Asgard before the end.

After fighting with himself for a few more beats, Loki nodded heavily.

“As you wish, brother,” he said.

They pressed on with urgency. They ceased to stop for the night, Loki taking turns with Banner to hold the reigns, while the other attempted a difficult, uneasy nap in the coach. 

More than two weeks they were on the road, and indeed, when Loki recognised the bell church of their old village emerging from the morning mists, he had not been able to get Thor to open his eyes or respond in any way for hours. 

“Thor, wake up,” he muttered once more, fighting his despair. “My love, wake up. We’re home…”

Thor lay unfeeling in his arms, and didn’t waken. Loki looked out the window anxiously, bidding the coach to hurry. All his hopes lay now in that house he had not seen in fifteen years, as if it were a holy sanctuary with miraculous healing powers.

  
  
  


Out of the coach window, Loki spotted Mme Idunne, their old housekeeper; she had changed very little since the last time Loki had seen her. She had stepped out of the manor house when she had spotted the unfamiliar carriage take the turn and cross the gates. Behind her, a girl and a boy, maybe her son and daughter-in-law, armed and ready with pikes and muskets. For fifteen years they had tended the house and guarded it from brigands. Judging from the tidiness and the good condition of the place, they had done well.

“Madame,” said Banner, jumping to the ground. “We mean no harm.” And he opened the door of the couch, for her to look inside.

In spite of Thor’s withered appearance (he would have seemed a corpse already, but for his tremors), old Idunne recognised her master at once. For Loki she had only a passing look, much too harried with Thor’s needs. In his female garb, she had not recognised him.

“Fetch the physician, quick!” she urged her son. “Help me get him inside the house!” she commanded Banner.

Loki was left to trail behind like a wandering spirit. He found the place mostly unchanged, lovingly kept, and clean. Besides the dust sheets covering the furniture, which now Mme Idunne was commanding her daughter-in-law to have removed, it was as if stepping back in time. He followed them up the stairs towards their father’s old bedroom, and watched them settle Thor in the ancient bed, where generations of Asgard’s lords had been born and died. Thor himself had been born in that bed. The other half of that thought, Loki suppressed.

The room was in a turmoil of activity. While Banner helped to lift and hold the patient up, Mme Idunne took Thor’s clothes off to wash. She then fetched from the trunk in the corner a clean nightgown, an old-fashioned garment, yellowing in spots, with small tears which had been painstakingly mended many times. It had been baggy and loose on the old man, but even in that weakened condition, it barely fitted his son. 

“Water, hot and cold,” she ordered her daughter-in-law. 

“He has lost a great deal of blood,” said Banner gravely.

“We must get some nourishment in him, then,” said Idunne. “I shall make him a stew enriched with lentils and bone marrow, and we’ll have him drink the gravy thinned with some broth.” She hurried to the kitchens.

Banner turned to Loki in the corner. 

“A capable, sensible woman,” he said.

“Very,” concurred Loki, no emotion in his voice, his eyes on his brother.

“The physician will be here soon. We’ll pull him through this.”

Loki nodded, sniffled, and wished very much for something to do with himself, but there was nothing. He paced the room like a caged wolf, feeling cold dread sinking into his bones, and hope deserting him fast with every one of Thor’s fevered tremors, every pained whimper, every laboured breath.

Mme Idunne returned with a bowl of soup soon after, informing them that the stew was on the stove and would be ready soon.

“And who are you, my dear?” she finally asked, looking at Loki.

“She’s Charlotte, Thor’s wife,” answered Banner quickly, taking the bowl from her and sitting by Thor’s side to try and feed him.

“Oh, my word!” she said, her countenance brightening at once at Banner’s words. She held Loki’s hands and kissed his cheek. “Such wonderful tidings! Welcome home, my dearest!”

With the terrible oppression on his chest from seeing Thor so weak and unresponsive, Loki struggled to formulate a fitting reply. Mme Idunne understood immediately.

“But my darling!” she said, with a lighter, spirited intonation, for the sake of the young, frightened new wife. “Do not fret, sweet thing, the master is as strong as an ox! All he needs is a good rest, you’ll see.”

Loki nodded quietly, still not trusting his voice.

“But come to the kitchens with me, we must get some food in you too. You look so frail that the first gush of  _ tramontane _ could topple you over! You’re no good to him if you can barely stand on your feet! Come, come!”

Loki had no intention of eating, but still Madame warmed some milk for him, and Loki dipped in a piece of bread to make her happy. 

He was expecting at any time a glint of recognition in her eye, but it never came. Was Loki so altered, and his female disguise so compelling, that he was able to fool the woman who had nursed him when he hurt his knees playing with Thor in the fields, and taught him his first letters and numbers? Or perhaps she was so worried for her dear Thor that she had no room to spare in her mind to entertain the outlandish possibility that the wayward bastard son might be returned as well, posing as his own brother’s wife. Perhaps a bit of both. 

Though he had thought he would not be able to eat a bite, Loki finished his bread and milk, and found himself better for it. It pleased Mme Idunne immensely, and finding her happiness so thoroughly warming, Loki asked for an apple, and ate that too.

  
  


The physician came, and with Banner’s assistance and counsel, he examined the patient. The wounds on his back, arms, and chest were not of great concern, as they seemed to be healing well, but the injury in his side was a worry. He felt it carefully. Tender and moist on the surface, a hard lump below. A frown on the old man’s face.

“Sepsis,” ventured Banner.

“I concur,” said the physician. “Do you follow Galen or Paracelsus?” 

“I’m more of a military surgeon,” lied Banner. “I employ the learnings I acquired there.”

“What would you recommend?”

“Piercing the wound.”

“I see. Purging it from foul humours.”

“Precisely. Examining the area for signs of dead tissue or other foreign matter.”

“Maggots?”

“If necrosis is found.”

“Very sensible. Otherwise?”

“Clean up, sew it up. A poultice.”

“Mercury, egg, and ash?”

“Honey, artemisia, calendula, and quinine,” spoke Mme Idunne from her spot, “and bilberry tincture three times a day.” The two physicians nodded, as much to the wisdom of that treatment as to the assuredness in her voice. Herbal remedies were a woman’s domain, and she was a trusted and acknowledged authority throughout the province.

“And regular bloodletting, to purge the black humours,” said the doctor. “Bring me my bag.”

“He’s lost enough blood already,” argued Loki to Mme Idunne, as the physicians prepared for the surgery on Thor. “He has none to spare.”

“You are entirely right. No bloodletting, worry not, I shall not allow it,” whispered Idunne. “But there is no use arguing with those Galenics, so we won’t. Instead, elderflower and birch tea for the fever, nettle and raspberry tea to fortify his blood, and bone-marrow and lentil stew thinned in herbal broth to fill his veins again. You’ll see, my sweet, soon he’ll be on his feet again.”

The procedure was gruesome, but Loki insisted on remaining beside his brother in spite of the protestations of the doctor, who feared being distracted by such a lovely girl having a fit or fainting on him during the surgery. But Loki didn’t budge, and when Mme Idunne and Banner supported him, the doctor had to relent. 

Loki made them proud, of course, as he never doubted he would. He helped to hold his brother down, patted the sweat off his forehead with a cloth, hummed a song in his ear, and never once did he make anyone fear he would not be able to withstand it. After all, he  was well accustomed to the sight of excruciating pain, and blood, and guts, and had been responsible many times in his life for spilling them himself. Some assassin he would have made should he have suffered from a delicate stomach, he thought, calmly watching the physician poking and prodding into Thor’s wound as his brother shuddered and groaned in pain, even in his diseased slumber.

Once that was done, the doctor was paid, and left. Mme Idunne hurried to prepare the poultice, brew the teas, and fetch the broth, while her son and daughter took away the dirtied sheets and brought a set of clean linens. When Banner was done with the needle and thread to suture the wound, Loki cleaned his brother up with a new rag, soaked in chamomile water, then dried him carefully and dabbed the suture with a decocted tincture of nettle root and wild rose glycerite from Madame’s pharmacy chest. 

“Let him rest,” advised Banner softly, “and have a rest yourself.”

Loki shook his head, afraid to leave his brother’s side.

“You ought to wash at least,” urged Banner, with a kindly smile, “possibly change your clothes.”

Loki looked at his hands and his skirt, browning with splatters of dry blood. He was an utter mess.

“Don’t leave him,” he told Banner, relenting to desert his brother’s side, but only for a moment.

 

The old housekeeper approached Loki as he washed.

“You have the hands of a lady, but you have the stomach of a farm girl!” she admired. “With you beside him, the master shall be out of bed in no time. …And then right back in it again, with you under the sheets with him!” she laughed.

That almost got a proper smile from Loki. 

“I need clean clothes,” he said, realising he would not be able to rescue those he was wearing.

“Come then, we must try Mme Frigga’s gowns on you. They will have to be adjusted, for you are much taller, but since she favoured long styles, I believe we will be able to use many yet. Come!”

 

All Loki wanted was to sit beside his brother and not let him out of his sight. Every chance he got, he would run to the bed, refresh Thor’s face and body with cold water, try and make him drink cold broth by wringing a rag onto his lips, and feed him spoonfuls of Mme Idunne’s berry and nettle tea. But the wily, sensible housekeeper would summon him every hour with one request or another. Pick me some apples, bring in some eggs, milk the goat, fetch me some water, light that fire. Anything to keep Loki busy, rather than withering away in agony beside his brother’s bed.

 

“You know, child,” mused Mme Idunne that afternoon, as they both worked crushing leaves for Thor’s poultice, “you remind me of someone.”

Loki’s hands seized around his pestle in a nervous clutch. Had she discovered the truth at last?

“Oh?”

“A maid that lived in this house a long time ago,” proceeded Mme Idunne. “With a very similar countenance and carriage. She was a very charming young girl, full of life. As far as I know, she only had a boy, but I do declare you could be her daughter.”

“What was her name?” asked Loki, without lifting his eyes from the mortar, lest they betrayed how his attention had spiked to alarm.

“Farbauti, it was.”

“And what became of her?”

“She left. Last I heard, she had opened a shop up north. Oils and perfumes, I believe.”

They worked in silence for some time, with Loki hard at thought with nothing of purpose. He could not remember his mother but as a vague presence that had simply ceased to be one day, to his disconcertment and heartbreak, with Thor the only to ever bring him a sense of comfort and affection comparable to that of the mother who left him.

“I had all but despaired that I would ever get to see the master wedded,” mused Mme Idunne after a while. 

“Such a fine, noble man, with such great beauty, and his own estate?” challenged Loki, with a tone of disbelief.

Madame left a heartbeat or too go by.

“Have you known him long?” she asked cautiously.

“Not long,” he lied.

“And do you know much about his youth?”

“Not much,” he lied again, hoping in this way to elicit her thoughts and opinions on the matter. He was curious. What did she make of Thor’s strange story, and his sinful passion for that wretched child that had led them all to ruin?

“He… lost someone very dear to him, and for many years, he was not quite himself,” she explained, choosing her words with care. “He would write to us from time to time, from Paris, and didn’t say much, but I would sense the suffering and longing in his words still, year after year.” 

And that is all? Loki minded his work, attempting to conceal how perturbed he was by that conversation, how much it fascinated him.

“You love him very much, don’t you, child?” asked Madame.

Loki only looked at her for a moment, with all the anxiousness and all the devastation of one who is only keeping together by sheer force of will, but might just fall apart at any moment.

“Oh, my sweet,” she said warmly, perceiving clearly the storm of emotion behind Loki’s composure. “He’s a good man, the master. He deserves happiness. I am glad he has found his heart at last, and that it is such a fine woman who has returned it to him. And you will see, this ordeal will temper your bond far more than any degree of carefree newlywed joy ever could.”

Loki nodded, his eyes glazing with weeping he would not allow to flow, lest he drown in it.

 

“You must not strain your shoulders like this!” Banner scolded him, entering the kitchen and finding Loki still crushing leaves. “Madame, Charlotte was, uh. She had a bad fall recently, and her arms were injured. She must let them rest.”

“I am well, Banner,” protested Loki. He had become used to the dull throb in his shoulders, blaming them on the constant tension and dread as much as to the plight in Calais, and was paying the discomfort no mind.

“Nonsense, let me examine you. Come to the bedroom.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” groused Mme Idunne, thinking Banner’s discretion was a slight to her own medical skills.

 

Loki undressed to the waist for Banner’s examination. He performed some exercises and gestures on Banner’s instruction for the former army doctor to appraise.

“Swollen,” said Banner, feeling here and poking there. “See? We haven’t been paying your injuries enough mind”

“We had greater concerns,” said Loki snappy.

“Well, Thor wouldn’t be happy with me for neglecting you. Let’s see what Mme Idunne has in her kitchen. I know the recipe for a miracle salve of Steve’s mother’s invention which I have tried myself. You’ll be ready to slave over crushing leaves again in no time.” 

  
  


Indeed, Banner’s soothing rubs with the cool salve were a great relief.

“Is Madame still sour about being kicked out of my sick room?” asked Loki.

“She’s sour with me and protective of you. She’s re-examining her old notions about northern women being impudent harlots as we speak. I suspect she believes you to be a blushing virgin.”

That got a good laugh out of Loki at least, and did him nearly as much good as Steve’s salve.

Night had fallen. Loki undressed down to his stays, let down his hair, wrapped up in a woolen shawl, and sat beside his brother’s bed. The wound had been cleaned and dabbed again with Madame’s tincture, the fresh poultice had been applied, and they had endeavoured to put some medicinal tea and broth inside Thor’s body. Madame and Banner had retired for now, but both had threatened to come regularly to check on them both. 

On his sick bed, Thor writhed and shuddered, his skin the colour of wax. Loki leaned closer to wring a wet rag over his lips, the only way they were getting him to drink now. Then he brushed the hair away from his brother’s face, and kept brushing for some time. 

“How beautiful you are,” he mumbled softly, “even now.”

He kissed Thor’s face, his forehead, his hands. 

“Don’t leave me now, brother,” he whispered then, clutching Thor’s hand. “You can’t leave me now. Not now that I’ve got you back.”

Thor slept, his breathing shallow and fitful.

 

Loki did not sleep. Thor’s chills and whimpers worsened in the small hours, so he kept wetting Thor’s skin with cool water to try to relieve him. He cried over his brother’s pain and frailty. He battled with despair. He didn’t pray. He hadn’t done much to ingratiate himself with the powers of heaven; he didn’t dare to pray.

 

Thor’s fever let up somewhat at dawn, and his sleep became less fitful; Loki laid beside him, pulled the sheet over both of them, and kissed his face. He tried to rest and regain some strength. He needed his wits and his courage and his temperance restored for the following days, for come what may, he feared they would get even harder before they got any easier, if they ever got easier at all.

  
  
  


______oOo______

  
  


It had been five very long days since they had arrived at Asgard, with very little sleep for everyone but Thor. Banner examined the wound and seemed optimistic.

“It feels much improved,” he said. “Like the sepsis might be letting up!”

Loki wished he could rejoice at those words or find some relief in them, but Thor seemed so weak, and he was barely drinking, and not eating at all, and his cheeks were sunken, and his complexion like parchment, and his sleep was as deep and remote and unnatural as ever. When they peeked beneath his eyelids, his eyes looked glassy and watery, and quite dead.

“Have heart,” said Banner. He had refrained at the last minute from dealing Loki a comrade’s pat on the back. To sustain the fiction of Loki’s sex, he traded it for a gentle shoulder squeeze. “Thor is as strong as a lion. I have seen him on what seemed like his deathbed before, and he’s made it back.”

Loki nodded in acknowledgement, but did not speak. He soaked the rag to feed Thor a few drops of cold marrow broth, and then some medicinal tea. 

He wished he could pray. He had walked past the family’s chapel several times, but had never risked going inside.  _ Save him _ , he had muttered, thinking of the kindly Virgin rendered in painted wood that stood by the altar, how she had smiled on him as a child, looking up humbly from his cold hard pew. The boys had been told back in the day that she heard all their prayers and could read all their thoughts. They were meant to fear her, but Loki never did, not when she could see into his sinful, corrupted heart, full of lustful love of the most forbidden nature, and still she smiled at him so warmly, her eyes full of compassion, her hands extended as in a permanent summons to her embrace.  _ Save him, _ prayed Loki now, fervently, for she had known their hearts all along, and sinners as they were, yet she had smiled on them. Perhaps she cared more for the sinner than she cared for the sin, Loki thought, and so,  _ save him _ , he muttered, kissing his brother’s hand as his tears fell.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Loki woke with the morning sun already high in the sky, with a feeling of unease. He had slept for a long time, and soundly. This was the first time he did for more than three weeks now, without Thor’s shakes and whimpers jerking him awake every few minutes. Something was wrong.

He looked at Thor now, terrified, full of foreboding. His brother was still and wan, and seemed peaceful – too peaceful. With his heart racing in dread, Loki touched his brother’s face and found it cool.

“Brother…” he murmured, his eyes already welling, fearing the worst.

But then he thought he saw Thor’s brow giving a minute twitch, almost too slight to notice, but enough for Loki to regain at least some of his wits. Only then did he notice Thor’s chest rising slightly with the quiet cadence of a serene, restful, natural slumber.

Loki was still struggling to breathe or think. He turned his head and saw that Banner was in the room with them, slumped on an armchair, snoring. Loki darted towards him and shook him, desperate for confirmation of those newborn hopes he now harbored.

“What-what is it?” Bruce jolted awake. Seeing Loki in such a state, his face a stunned mask, his urgency, he rushed to the bed. He felt Thor’s skin; he felt his chest. And then he slowly allowed himself to smile.

“His fever has broken,” he said. “He will be fine.”

Loki burst into tears of relief.

“Thank Mary.”

  
  


________oOo________

  
  
  


When Thor finally opened his eyes hours later, he saw a woman by the window minding her needlework. When his sight and his thoughts became clearer, he saw it was not a woman, but Loki. And he was not darning, he was sharpening knives.

“You can take the Trickster out of the business,” he wheezed with a cracked, threadbare voice, “but you can’t take the business out of the Trickster.”

Loki dropped his knife and whetstone and bolted from his chair, rushing to his brother’s bedside. 

“Brother…” he muttered, his own voice quite weak and broken, for different reasons. He kissed Thor’s face and hands many times while Thor smiled weakly, his eyes closed for his brother’s kisses. “How do you feel.”

“Thirsty.”

Loki brought the cup to his lips. The first sip, meeting in his throat something akin to sand and gravel, made Thor cough and splutter. The second passed more easily. After a beat or two, he was able to drain the cup and ask for more. Then he turned to his brother and blinked a few times.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked.

Loki burst into a sound that was part chuckle, part sob. He shook his head, emotion rising to his eyes.

“Am I?” he said. “I thought we’d lost you.”

Thor lifted a trembling hand to pull his brother near, and kissed him. 

“Not now that I have finally found you,” he whispered.

They embraced, Loki clinging tight even as he fretted about hurting his weakened brother.

“Praise the heavens!” came Mme Idunne’s voice from the door. “He’s awake!”

“My dear Maman,” said Thor. And, “Banner!” he exclaimed, for his friend had walked in right behind the housekeeper. 

There were many expressions of elation and relief, tears, and embraces, restrained so as not to overburden the patient.

“How come you never wrote to say you were to be wedded!” scolded Mme Idunne, as Banner examined the color of Thor’s eyes and tongue.

Thor turned to Loki, who was suddenly fretting. Would Thor mind that they had carried on the fiction? 

Thor reached for Loki’s hand.

“There wasn’t time,” he said, beholding his ‘wife’ warmly. “Be content that I was able to bring her home.” And he kissed Loki’s palm with fervour.

Once they got a few spoonfuls of that hot, restoring stew into him, they made Thor go to sleep again. His protestations only tired him further, and soon, protestations or not, he was napping peacefully in his bed.

“Perhaps you should get some fresh air, my child,” advised Madame to Loki.

“I wish to be here when he wakes up again,” he argued.

“Get some sun and some food in you,” insisted Mme Idunne. “He’ll want to see his beautiful wife looking her best when he wakes up again. Nothing will bring him to health faster.”

Now  _ that _ was a reason Loki could not fail to heed. The wily old nag read him well. He examined himself in Mme Frigga’s silver mirror, and perceived with alarm the noticeable signs that fatigue and concern had imprinted on his face. That simply would not do. 

He relented to desert Thor’s bedside to eat, have a brisk walk around the house, that the country air and slight touch of sunshine would freshen his complexion, and then washed, put some powders on, did his hair, and changed his clothes. Only one of Mme Frigga’s gowns had been fitted for him yet, so he wore that one. They were simple garments, for Thor’s mother, though elegant, had been a modest lady. Modest or not, she clearly could not suffer anything cheap or shoddy, so the linen was as fine as could be, and the stitching spotless. Just a dash of lace here and there, and a touch of starch to show it to best advantage. In those clothes, Loki looked every bit like a well-to-do country woman who has known the delights of the city and received a fine education, and has returned to her provincial roots with all the polish and sophistication, but none of the airs. 

And when Thor woke up at supper time, his wife was there beside him, looking radiant indeed, even in the lamplight.

 

“How beautiful you are,” rumbled his brother, after Loki had fed him another bowlful of stew, and some fresh berries —Mme Idunne said they aided with infections too. And then Thor stretched his arm towards him, still feeble. “Come closer.”

Loki poured a cup of water mixed with some wine and honey, herbs and spices.

“Drink it down. Physician’s orders.”

“Kiss first?”

“Oh, do behave.”

“The best medicine is my wife’s nursing and attention,” insisted Thor.

Loki in his exasperation showed Thor the white in his eyes, but still he sat down beside him and leaned closer for a kiss. But Thor wouldn’t let him move another inch further than his lips, and his arms enfolded Loki and pulled him close with eagerness.

“These clothes on you,” rumbled Thor, now kissing Loki’s creamy white throat, “they put so many indecent notions in my thoughts.”

“I can see that,” said Loki, pushing his brother off half-heartedly, for he was as eager for Thor’s touch as Thor was for his. “But you must behave, you’re too weak for…”

Thor groaned against Loki’s neck, and Loki shivered with the most impudent chill.

“How are you even able to think of… You were at death’s door only yesterday!”

“Why, brother, am I shocking you?” chuckled Thor, his hands wandering, seeking access under Loki’s clothes. “You could make a dead man rise from his grave, you’re so enticing…”

“Brother, behave.”

Thor’s hand was up his brother’s skirt. 

“Must I leave this room right now and entrust you fully to Mme Idunne’s care, withdraw until you grow more brains and more sense and learn to behave yourself?” said Loki sternly, refraining Thor’s hands from sneaking any further. “I haven’t stayed up day and night fretting over your life only to let you spoil your recovery because of this hot head of yours!”

Thor both acknowledged now the seriousness of Loki’s intent and the good sense in his warnings, for he had begun to feel his head light and his stomach heave, while bright sparks appeared behind his eyes when he closed them. He reclined back on his pillows and sighed deeply. Half-pleased and half-disappointed, Loki stood up to take away the remains of the patient’s light dinner. Thor watched him in his grays and creams, holding himself up like a lady, the fiction perfect, and still somehow succeeding in remaining every bit his brother. 

“I just need to make sure you’re real, and that you’re here, feel you alive and well in my arms.…” confessed Thor. “I must… clear my thoughts. Freshen them up. Throw the windows open and clear the air.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gloomy memories. Horrible. I had nightmares in my illness, you see.”

“Nightmares?”

“Rochefort disappears in the streets, and I can never find you again. He has you at his mercy. I hear you screaming in agony, and I can’t… Or Tony’s knots fail,” murmured Thor, with a shudder of horror. “And I am ill and lost and weak, and there is nothing I can do to save you. And I cannot wake up, and I cannot change a thing.”

Loki meditated his brother’s words of anguish. He set the supper things down, returned to Thor’s bedside again, and held his hands between his, caressing them tenderly. 

“I am real, I am here,” he said. “I am alive and well. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Thor stroked his face, his eyes glowing with love.

“I had nightmares too,” said Loki, though he couldn’t meet Thor’s eyes to speak these words. “You had ceased to love me. You turned your back on me. You walked away and abandoned me to my luck.”

Thor smiled weakly, his hand finding delight in the warmth and softness of his brother’s skin, which for so long he had only been able to conjure up in his dreams. 

“Come to bed, wife,” muttered Thor, not without some bashfulness. “Lay with me.”

Loki couldn’t help the tiniest smirk as he stood in no doubt of what his brother had in mind.

“Incorrigible,” he grumbled, feigning displeasure.

But before he could, Madame and Banner were in the room to check on the patient before they left for the night.

 

“So, uhm, Charlotte will sleep here tonight, then?” asked Banner, after his revision of Thor’s injury, the color of his eyes and tongue, his urine, and after hearing Thor’s answers to some questions as to his general condition. 

“Well, she has been doing so all these days, and I’m sure it has done me nothing but good,” grinned Thor, with a cheeky grin.

“I don’t need to tell you to, uh, be sensible, do I?” said Banner, as his eyes darted to Loki at the other end of the chamber, busy mixing Thor’s tonic. “No, uh, no exertions,” he ordered, with a nervous cough to clear his throat.

Mme Idunne had brought up a tray with bread, milk, and honey, because Thor had regained his appetite, and it pleased the old woman very much to watch him wolf down everything she put before him.

“Ah, nonsense,” she said, beholding Thor eating with gusto, milk dripping down his beard, “young lovers should have plenty of bedsport. There’s nothing better for the spirit, and what’s good for the spirit is good for the body! If the blood calls, do heed it! It means everything is going well!” Mme Idunne reminded Loki right now of a fertility goddess crazily sowing blossoming buds on every tree. And she whispered to Loki, “My dear, you can restore him to health better than any tonic. There are many ways to accomplish that without causing him to exhaust himself. Shall I teach you some?”

“Uh, mind your shoulders, Charlotte,” advised Banner.

“Well, without use of her arms, a perky wife can still…” Madame was saying.

Loki’s ears had gone bright red, and Thor laughed heartily.

“I’m sure we shall think of something, Maman,” he interrupted her, his grin so wide and sunny, a sparkle in his eye.

 

“Has Madame managed to make you blush, Trickster?” teased Thor, once they were alone.

“She used to change my nappy, brother,” groused Loki, embarrassed about it all. “I find it rather shocking to hear her now willing to teach me bedtricks to please you…”

Thor chuckled softly, and then coughed. Though his complexion had not yet regained that golden radiance, he dazzled with his high spirits and good humour.

It was time for Loki to prepare for bed. Thor observed the ritual with fascination as Loki unpinned his gown and unlaced his stays. He was practiced at dressing and undressing himself without any attendants, of course, the secret of Milady’s true sex dependent on this discretion. The many separate pieces that composed Loki’s female armour came off one after the other, until nothing but his linen shift remained. And though he had unclothed intending no seduction by it, he found as he let his hair down that his breathing had picked up and his heartbeat was rushing, feeling his brother’s eyes on him at all times. 

“All those days, thinking of you with Buckingham, with Steve, what they had had, and I had not,” said Thor, lying on the bed. “How you taunted me and tormented me with those visions, making sure I missed no detail, and could picture it in my mind as clearly as if it had happened before my very eyes.”

Loki’s composure became strained, rigid. But when he turned, he didn’t see anger or reproach in his brother’s expression, only dark, hungered desire. 

“How you taunted me with your indifference, with your coldness,” countered Loki, a soft confession. “And when I saw you burning with jealousy, I had to stoke that fire. If I couldn’t have your love, I would have your hatred. Hatred was better than that cold contempt in your eyes.”

“I tried to hate you,” admitted Thor. “I tried. I tried to bury my need and my tenderness for you and see only the Trickster. But my darling, I could not. If all that was left of my brother was the Trickster, even if it killed me, I was going to love the Trickster too.”

Those words made Loki smile vaguely, for his brother had a heart as big as a house and a brain the size of a pea, and Loki adored him. He approached the bed.

“I was only ever yours,” Loki whispered. “All these years, I have longed for no-one else. No other has ever mattered. No other has reached under my skin.”

“Not even Steve?”

Loki’s eyes flickered with his confusion.

“Forget it,” said Thor. “I can’t blame you. Had I been in your place, I would have loved him too.”

Loki didn’t reply. 

“Lie down beside me,” whispered Thor then.

Loki’s thoughts troubled him. He could not say that shedding the Trickster’s costume had allowed him to shed all of the Trickster’s deeds and the markings they had left on his body, from many years of that dirty trade of his. Would his brother feel the Trickster on Loki and become repulsed? Still Loki complied, trembling like a virgin bride.

Mindful of his injured side, Thor rolled towards him, and kissed him, a slow, sensual exercise that demonstrated prowess and experience. And in between, his hand wandered free. Loki’s face, his hair, soon his neck, his collarbones through his shift. Then Thor’s hand sought the laces of the shift’s collar and undid them.

“Thor…” muttered Loki, though his emotions were quickly becoming too warmly stirred for protest. “You’re still so weak. No matter what Mme Idunne says, you shouldn’t…”

“Just because I can’t doesn’t mean you can’t,” whispered his brother hotly, as his hand strayed lower, until it found the hem of the shift, and slipped beneath.

“But Banner said…” 

Thor’s hand found what it had been seeking, and Loki’s words stopped with a choke, his blood in tumult.

“Do you want me?” asked his brother huskily, his lips brushing on Loki’s skin, his hand stroking slowly. “I know I’m not the boy I used to be…”

“You’re ten times the man,” countered Loki.

“Do you want me then?”

“But your injury…” protested Loki, his words slowing down with his increasing languor.

“Forget that,” instructed Thor, pressing burning hot kisses on his neck, which darted a flame to Loki’s heart, radiating to every part of him. “Do you?”

Loki closed his eyes, his body answering his brother’s question, throbbing in Thor’s hand. Still he muttered,

“Yes…” he sighed. “Mercy, I want you…”

“Let me, then,” Thor whispered. “Give over to me.”

“Brother…” sighed Loki, his eyes closing with wantonness, his hand over Thor’s in one last feeble attempt, one last token show of resistance.

Then the motions of Thor’s hand acquired more vigour, their cadence more pressing regularity, and a plaintive moan escaped Loki’s lips.

“Loki…” whispered Thor, speeding up his strokes, aching with his own desire, even if his body was still too infirm to show it.

Loki’s body arched into his brother’s touch; he shook up when it gained intensity and purpose. Thor curled around him, trapping Loki’s legs under one of his, possessive. The fever of his skin now was nothing like the unwholesome heat of his illness. It burned and it enfolded Loki, alive and hungered.

“You’re mine,” grumbled Thor in his brother’s ear. “Say you’re mine.”

Nails sinking into his brother’s arm, Loki whimpered, Thor’s touches inflaming his senses, depriving him of power or sense to oppose.

“Thor…”

Thor’s mouth spoke into his ear. “Say you’re mine,” he demanded.

“I’m yours,” sighed Loki, breathless with pleasure. “Yours…”

With Thor’s eyes on the rapidly changing expressions on his face, and keen on every sound he produced, Loki surrendered to the commands of his brother’s hand. He turned his head to reap fierce kisses of humid fire from his brother’s lips, their mouths double-tongued, their urge full of ravenous hunger.

“Loki, Loki…” grunted his brother, sounding as transported by the whole transaction as Loki himself.

Loki felt that die-away moment taking over, and sobbed as rapture shook him, his brother’s mouth drinking his every sound of delight.

Loki lay there, regaining his breath and his senses, as Thor cleaned him up. He had lifted Loki’s shift, that he could feast his sight as well as his touch, and stroked over his skin with his fingertips.

A thought occurred.

“This is our father’s sleeping chamber. This is our father’s bed,” said Loki.

“No,” said Thor. “It’s  _ our _ sleeping chamber.  _ Our _ bed.”

“Does it not bother you, then? Any of it?”

“Haven’t we both been through enough hell in our lives, that we must invite it into our heads and our spirits as well?” said Thor.

“Such a wise old man you have become,” mused Loki, with a yawn.

“Old man, eh?” grumbled Thor, pressing against him, pinching his brother’s behind.

They kissed and chuckled between the sheets for a while yet, giggling and sniggering, tickling and pinching, like the children they once were. 

 

Just before sleep took him, burrowing into Thor’s body, comforted by his slow, natural breathing, Loki realised with astonishment he could not remember the last time he’d had a lover in his bed with no other demands on him but Loki’s pleasure. 

 

 

_________oOo_________

 

 

A few days passed. Thor’s indomitable lust for life served him well. He ate with appetite, rested soundly, and at nights he made some light bedsport with his brother. Soon he was hale enough to walk outside, aided by Loki’s and Banner’s arms. The sun and fresh air operated wonders on the Musketeer, and soon he was making it as far as the olive grove, where he would lay down next to his brother and they would both trade kisses for a long time under the caress of the hot summer breeze, until the warmth of the afternoon and extenuation would lull them both into a nap. Thor could not remember happier days since he was a boy, and neither could his brother. It was a great prodigy to be back in the golden fields of Asgard, together, and they would at times look at each other with the same quiet awe, but neither would speak it out for fear of breaking the spell. If they were dreaming, they didn’t want to be stirred.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“The kettle boiled,” reported Mme Idunne when Loki turned up with a bundle of clean cloths over his arm. “Is it for his bath?”

Loki nodded.

“Here,” said the old housekeeper, handing Loki a little clay flask. “This is what we used to wash his hair with when he was a little boy. Almond oil infused with mint and carnation, and chamomile, to brighten it even more.”

Loki sniffed it and recognised it at once. Emotion overtook him for a moment. He almost gasped, “I remember.”

Banner was in the room when Loki walked in with the cloths and the kettle. 

“It’s knitted well,” the doctor was saying, examining the wound on Thor’s side. “We shall continue to apply Steve’s salve, but it won’t need any more bandages.”

“Can I go have a swim in the river, then?” asked Thor.

“What did I say about over-exerting yourself?” scolded Banner.

Loki poured some water into the washbowl and soaked in it a clean rag. 

“Seems like it’s my bath time, doctor,” rumbled Thor, and even with his back turned, Loki could feel his hot stare on him. “Will you leave us?”

“What did the good doctor mumble in your ear just now before he left, that flustered him so badly?” asked Loki, approaching.

“He insisted I was not to overexert myself,” grinned Thor, mischievous.

“What on God’s sweet earth could he have been talking about?” said Loki playing coy, wringing the cloth and setting it down. Then he approached to help his brother out of his nightshirt.

“I haven’t the faintest,” said Thor, looking up to him, fully naked. He was in an excellent mood, and now Loki saw why, his prick perked and crested up between his thighs. Loki’s eyes drooped inevitably, taking in the supple softness of the shaft, the vermilion head, the branched veins. 

“I should have brought more cold water,” said Loki mildly.

Thor laughed. 

“We could just let the hot water you brought up undisturbed for a while, until it’s cold,” rumbled Thor, holding Loki by the hips and drawing him close. “I’m sure we’ll find something to entertain ourselves in the meantime.”

“I mean to give you a bath,” protested Loki stubbornly.

“And I mean to get a bit dirtier before I get clean,” said his brother, his hands wandering under Loki’s skirts.

“Stop that,” instructed Loki, guiding his brother to the stool in the corner. “You reek.”

He proceeded to clean his brother up, armpits to toes, trying not to let their respective flusters distract him from his purpose.

Thor was a good boy for some time, docile and obliging, lifting and turning when instructed to do so. His prick, however, remained as stubbornly stiff and prominent as a paschal candle, and eventually, his hands began to stray. Loki’s eyes soon became heavy with arousal, his brother’s hands slipping under skirts and petticoats and stays and lodging between his thighs, putting a charm to his every possible objection. 

In truth, their nightly activities had been an excellent gauge of Thor’s progress to full recovery, his body responding more energetically every day, and this afternoon there was no sign on Thor’s body that indicated anything but youthful, vigorous health. In short, Loki had no reasonable objection to put to him. And what he did have was a considerable debt to him, since night after night Loki had received every attention, and hadn’t been able yet to reciprocate as he desired, and he desired it most urgently and more impatiently every day.

Thor perceived the subtle move to relent in his brother’s languor, and increased his persuasion, feeling and groping.

“I think I’m ready for you now, wife,” he rumbled hotly. “Will you take me?”

Loki grinned at the name, which Thor seemed so fond of. But his countenance darkened after a moment.

“What is it, brother?” asked Thor.

“Nothing.”

“I beg you.”

“There is a thought that plagues me,” muttered Loki. 

“Do tell. You can tell me anything.”

“Can I?” said Loki with a weak, lacklustre smile. “Those words you had for the Trickster in Calais. All that hatred and contempt for his crimes and his whoring. Where did that animosity go?”

“The Trickster died in Calais a few weeks ago,” said Thor. “Whatever I might have felt against him died with him.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Loki. “They say he can outwit Death itself. So say the legends.”

“Legends?” scoffed Thor. “I knew the Trickster, you know. He was not that clever,” he said humorously.

Loki affected outrage.

“Cleverer than you, brute,” he said. “What about… Buckingham? And all the rest?”

“What about them.”

“You’re a jealous man…”

Thor chuckled in bonhomie, but still he detected the concerns aggrieving his brother and surmised they would not be appeased with only a slight brush off. He pondered how could he set his brother’s heart at ease. He stood up to pull him close and embrace him tightly, prick hard between them as they kissed. 

“Do you remember our vows in the olive grove?” he muttered close to Loki’s skin, in a dark mumble. “That single kiss? The ring?”

“Of course I do.”

“What we pledged? The oath we took?”

“Yes, brother.”

“I have thought of us wedded since that day. I have been your husband all those years, as good as if we had written our names in the parish records. Do you believe me?”

“You’re hard-headed enough,” granted Loki.

“And you?”

Loki showed him the ring around his finger.

“I never took it off.”

Thor kissed the ring, and kissed him.

“Well, husband, I’m afraid I have a shameful confession to make,” said Thor.

“Oh?”

“I have been weak in your absence. I’ve not been faithful. Can you forgive me, my love?”

Loki snorted at the ridiculousness of the notion.

“What right have I to forgive anything to anyone, especially that?”

“Your right as my husband,” said Thor. “The right I am giving you. Forgive me.”

Thor regarded him with intent, that Loki knew he was not jesting.

“I forgive you,” said Loki.

Thor kissed him once more.

“Then I forgive you,” he whispered. 

“I haven’t asked.”

“And yet I do.”

“Can you, really? Fifteen years your enemy, the whore of France and England, all the blood on my hands, and your friends?”

“It was a bad dream,” said Thor softly. “We’re awake now. The Trickster and the Musketeer left for Paris, but Thor and Loki stayed behind and lived in peace in their olive grove all this time.”

“Dreams leave no scars,” muttered Loki, his fingertips tracing those he could see on his brother’s body. “How many of these am I to blame for?”

“None. The Cardinal put them there, each and every one of them. The hand wielding the sword or the dagger was the hand of a pawn, as I was a pawn in a game of kings and bishops, sending us minions to do their dirty work. Yes, I can forgive you, and I do.”

Loki beheld his brother overcome with emotion. Thor kissed him on the lips, delaying there, unrushed.

“Lie down then,” he whispered into Thor’s ear. “Let me serve you, husband.”

With eyes hazed in lust, Thor walked to the bed and complied. Loki indulged for a spell in the wondrous array of manly graces of his brother’s body, each in turn conspiring to fix his gaze, from his neck exquisitely turned, down to his finely fashioned thigh, and everything in between, the plump ripe flesh gorged with lustful intent. Loki raised his hands to the part of him that had begun to raise a mutiny at the sights, that body of the most vigorous make and contexture, broad chest and narrow hip. 

Loki’s lifted his skirts and kneeled between his brother’s legs, his hands ranging intemperately over every part of him. Thor sighed and lay still, in offering, soft shivers and twitches under his brother’s quest.

Loki soon had traded fingertips for tongue and lips, heightening the onslaught on Thor’s senses. Loki wasn’t bound to temperance on account of his brother’s frailty anymore, and he had his skills and his tricks, and he meant to use them for his own pleasure, for once. He teased Thor’s tender nipples until they hardened, sucked them and teased them some more, delighting when his brother shivered and his hands clutched his hair. He then trailed soft kisses down that golden body, brushing gently where the white skin burnishes on. He slid his lips along his brother’s prick, and they slid over it like on the surface on the most polished ivory. His tongue entered the action, and his brother shuddered deeply, with an aching groan. Loki took him deep in his mouth

“Brother…” sighed Thor, transported.

Loki enjoyed the delights of this act immensely, the power to undo a body with a touch, while his own remained in full possession of itself. But he didn’t let Thor topple past the brink, for he still had many designs for that instrument of pleasure that had finally been restored to them both. He availed himself of Madame’s almond and chamomile oil, and lathered his brother’s shaft with slow, languid strokes. He then lifted his skirts even more, and with Thor’s aid to hold them up, he reached behind himself, between his legs. All this Thor observed with glazed eyes and a blush high on his cheeks, heated with a fever very different than that which had almost taken him away from Loki’s side.

He straddled his brother’s body and drew him home to him, his narrowness affording no more difficulty than what heightened Thor’s pleasure, in the strict embrace of that tender, warm sheath. Both sighed with a tremor, and then Loki began to rise and fall with a regular cadence that soon grew into a storm of heaves, the sting of pleasure spurring him on to a fiercer action. Thor’s body joined in the motion, and soon their transport grew too violent to observe any order of measure. Moaning together, overcome with their ungovernable desire, they amorously clashed their bodies in tender hostility, the tumult robbing them both of their liberty of thought. Thor’s greedy hands ripped the bodice of Loki’s gown and his shift, that he may see the bosom whiter than a drift of snow tinging with pink as Loki strained himself to sustain the intensity of his attack. Thor endeavoured to meet him every time he fell, and when he saw that his brother was close to peaking, he took him in hand to wring the last, fullest surge of pleasure out of him, while never ceasing to thrust inside him, until he too was spent.

Loki needed his brother’s aid to dismount, because his thighs had been used to extenuation. He laid by his brother’s side to regain his breath, warm in his arms, and for some time, neither spoke, sated and content.

“Next time,” panted Thor, his throat dry, “I shall lie on my face, and you can do the honors.”

“With pleasure,” granted Loki, when he had managed to return to his senses. 

They held hands and enjoyed the calm after the amorous storm.

“I suppose I must start all over again with your bath now,” mused Loki, one gesture towards the mess on Thor’s chest and stomach.

His brother laughed darkly.

“I told you to wait, didn’t I?”

“Oh dear.”

“What?”

“What shall I use for your hair? We have used all the oil! Laugh, laugh big oaf. What should I tell Mme Idunne when she asks what have I used the flask she already gave me?”

“Tell her you needed to wash as well,” he rumbled, turning on his side to take him in his arms.

“Mind your injury,” said Loki.

“It barely bothers me anymore.”

“Are you always so overbearing in bed?”

“I have fifteen years of absence to make up for. Whose fault is that?”

“You’ll be using that against me in fifty years time, won’t you?”

“If we live that long, for sure.”

“Lord have mercy.”

Thor nuzzled into his neck.

“What are we going to do now, brother?” asked Loki softly. “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know,” said Thor. “But I don’t fear what may come. Together, we have already managed to vanquish death. We should be able to manage life, don’t you think?”

“Your blind optimism is exhausting,” groused Loki.

“And you’re still as grumpy as ever,” said Thor. “It’s adorable.”

“Adorable? How dare you,” protested Loki.

Thor shut him up with a kiss. 

  
  


 

FINIS

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did deserve a soft epilogue, did they not? 
> 
> Guess what, research indicates coaches did make their appearance around that time.
> 
> I actually did some research into herbal medicine and such, and from what I've found, those plants are used for the purposes I write here (and quinine was known in the XVII century, and used for fevers, and malaria, even then, how about that, I thought it was a more modern discovery). Only... these plants are native to Great Britain, and I haven't double checked that they can be found in the south of France as well, because WHO THE FUCK CARES, DAMMIT, we're here to let them fuck at last!
> 
> I wish I could have given you a truly historically accurate treatment and vocabulary for Thor's injury, because I'm sure it would have been soooo colorful, but alas, without my free JSTOR access, I couldn't. (I miss my free JSTOR access. *SIGH*). So I basically just bluffed my way around, as usual. I'm pretty sure the actual treatment would have been a lot more gruesome, and involve outlandish treatments like applying cheese and god knows what on the wound, and definitely leeches (I told you, I've done research, and dude...)
> 
> Anyway, yes, research was done for several things, but in no way I claim this to be accurate and correct. I just wanted it to sound plausible. I hope it worked.
> 
>  
> 
> PS: The rest of WIPs... Ugh, sorry. I /am/ trying, I swear. Advanced drafts, but nothing finished yet. Don't know what's wrong with me. I'll keep trying...

**Author's Note:**

> Many moons ago, the idea for a Thorki AU stemming from the scene of Athos' Drunken Confession kept circling my head, but wouldn't crystallise. I was lucky enough that my friend Pinknoonicorn happened to be a huge fan of the Three Musketeers. We bounced ideas, we broke our heads casting this whole thing and discussing Thorki parallels, refining the connections, and basically just getting very excited about this. And so, a first rough draft occurred, thanks to her ideas, encouragement and squee. 
> 
> I left it alone to rest, bc busy. Many months later, while stuck on other WIPs, I shared the half-arsed rough first draft with Thorctopus, and questions were raised, plotholes detected, characters further developed, and fic massively improved as a result. 
> 
> So, without Noonie first, and Ctopey later, we wouldn't be here, guys. I'm blessed with my fandom friends. I LOVE YOU!!


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